The Grimm Grimmoire
by LittleBounce
Summary: What went into Sean Renard's college report? What does a Grimm's mid-life crisis look like? How thick is Monroe's file of Nick-Accidents? How well does a Grimm adapt to modern technology? How do you prank a Grimm/Blutbad/Lowen? A series of VERY, VERY SILLY one-shots showing the outside edges of the lives of our favourite Grimm characters... past, present and future...
1. The Education of Sean Renard

**This is just one of a series of very daft one-shots exploring the past, present and future of our favourite Grimm characters - without committing myself to a plot ;) They don't connect into a story. Just a series of opportunities to be exceptionally daft. This isn't related to the series of stories I'm writing elsewhere - just an opportunity to offload my silly side from time to time.**

**Very grateful for R&R. Happy to consider silly ideas - if I can make them work! Anyway, hope you enjoy. Here's the first in the series: the early education of one Sean Renard...**

* * *

**N**ational **A**cademy for **S**tudies in **T**yrannical **Y**eomanry (NASTY)

64 Vincent's Square, LONDON, SW1P 4LL

* * *

Course: _Introductory Strategy for Evil Overlords_

Report: Year-end performance 1989-1990

Student: **Sean Antoine Renard** (DOB 07/06/1970)

Tutor: Dr Feer

Final mark: 76% (C). Moderately dastardly. Must improve.

* * *

**The basis of this assessment**

I have compiled this assessment on the basis of my observations of you over the last year and summarised the conversations we have had during our quarterly reviews. None of the following comments or my final recommendations should come as a surprise, unless of course you weren't listening during any of our quarterly reviews. As you do not often blink or apply your facial muscles during a conversation, it is difficult to know how much is being actively absorbed.

I also feel obliged to remind you, here, that you are being objectively obsessed in your own rights as a potential and future evil overlord and that my recommendations are in no way connected with your current status as a junior member of a sinister Royal Wesen family.

**Your syllabus: a summary of results**

_**First semester: **_

*** Charmless delegation: **75% (C). There is still some charm visible. This must stop.

*** Evil laughter: **35% (fail). We have spoken.

*** Moving the corporate goalposts: **98% (A+ and an all-time NASTY record. High marks given for adding extra objectives to lecturers' performance plans without them noticing. Two percentage marks lost for doing it to _your _lecturer. Again, we have spoken.)

_**Second and final semester**_**: **

**Man-management dissertation – recruitment initiatives.** Outstanding work, covered under 'highlights'. A.

**Highlights of the Year**

_**Your Masterclass in 'Stony Stares'**_. This was a highly over-subscribed event with excellent outcomes. It was a rather _quiet_ class, which could have benefitted from some early ice-breakers. However, post-course feedback indicates that those attending have gone on to unnerve an average of eight more minions per week, which is a clear and measurable benefit and you demonstrated your own course material in a manner that left no one of any doubt of your natural flair in this area. We are grateful to you for sharing your singular skill with other students at NASTY.

_**Setting up the dark side of the canteen. **_Your initiative in doing this was widely appreciated. The NASTY management have long felt that the pastel shades, broad-panel windows, excessive sunlight and flower arrangements were counterintuitive to destructive thinking. Sectioning off a 'thinking' corner was inspirational: the combination of burgundy paint, Rothko paintings and three-hundred-year-old creaking furniture has made the area highly popular and has produced a great deal of sinister ruminations and high-quality work.

_**Man-management dissertation: recruitment techniques. **_A year highlight was unquestionably your outstanding performance on launching the "High Potential Dominators selection pilot". This was not just a personal triumph, but a NASTY one, which we can now sell to corporations across the world. The concept of setting up a series of roleplays to test a candidate's capacity to oppress at a moment's notice has been nothing short of game-changing, allowing careful selection of future evil overlords on the basis of their cunning and immoral fibre.

Of particular note was your highly inventive PollyAnna simulator, which very inventively tests a candidate's ability to withstand half an hour of oblivious, merciless optimism in the face of unpleasantry and death threats. The following testimony comes directly from the Professor of Nefarious Strategy:

"After hearing so much positive feedback from recruiters and applicants, I had to try out the PollyAnna simulator for myself. Although she was just a hologram, she severely tested my patience and I was ready to throw rocks through the laserbeams after her third sweet-natured smile. It is reassuring to find that I am still able to destroy morale within five minutes, but the simulator has rather exposed some rusty areas in my supposedly unflappable exterior. I can only imagine that young Mr Renard, the creator of this simulator, has by now hardened himself permanently from any outward expression of emotion during the test phase of this particular device. He has a fine career ahead of him."

**Areas for Improvement**

You have acquired a great many oppressive skills: your crushing asides and withering sarcasm are well-respected across the department.

However, we did discuss your interpersonal skills. In particular, the troubling way in which you speak to the minions assigned to you. On some occasions, you have been seen to be downright pleasant, which is entirely unacceptable.

In a recent example, you asked minion #32 for a cup of tea in a perfectly normal tone of voice. Having caught my eye, you hastily added: "AND YOU WILL DO MY BIDDING!", but your hesitation and reluctance to thunder were duly noted. If you are to attain a sufficient mark to continue beyond the first semester of your final year at NASTY, you must seek to instil a sense of disparagement and dread in your everyday communications as a matter of course.

Your grade for the evil laughter module is an insult to NASTY and the hard work that is invested in managing an evil overlord's public image. I regret to note that you are not taking this element of your personal development _remotely_ seriously, and I must say that your attitude to this part of the syllabus has been little short of shameful.

Professor Elmo has told me that he is lucky to get more than a sardonic smirk out of you. The few marks you were able to scrape together for this course were the result of him (very kindly) grading the sinister chuckle you gave him when he threatened to throw you off the course.

**Finally, please do _not_ expose your Hexenbiest at the other students while you are showering after the gym**. As much as you like your privacy, _everyone_ has the right to a shower. Scaring them out en masse is ungentlemanly and expensive. To explain this to you in the clearest possible terms, mass startlement + slippery floors = expensive accident compensation claims. If there is another such incident of this kind, your father can pick up the bill.

**Future career options**

I'm not sure that your future lies in being an evil overlord. My view is that you are merely half-fiendish, and that your 'better' side, for want of a better word, reigns for the majority of the time. The fact that you have to battle with your dark side is not a sufficient reason to remain at NASTY. There are very many, very able students here with no good side whatsoever who may not have your intelligence, but certainly have the darkness required to work on the strategy and tactical element of things.

I believe that you will do better in a position of authority in an organisation that is set up to allow senior persons to operate with a great deal of secrecy. In this kind of environment, you would have the freedom to hatch dubious plans undetected (until you want them to be detected), travel for free, oppress at moment's notice, and of course look continuously grave, given the managerial weight upon your shoulders. It also means that you can – if the mood takes you – be pleasant from time to time without being conspicuous.

Your C gives you the right to continue for the first semester of the next academic year. However, if the improvement points above have not been addressed, I see little point in taking your education here any further. You may have better luck with the **N**ational **I**nstitute for **C**onflict **E**ncouragement and if you are interested, I will refer you. They have branches in the states, and recruitment links into most US law enforcement agencies.

Have a good summer break and I'll see you in September.

Dr Daniel Feer.


	2. very Grimm arts and crafts

**Second in series of very silly unconnected shorts. Who says that Grimms can't rule the internet? Nick's mom has a mid-life crisis and turns 'silver surfer on him'…..**

**X x X**

"Um… Nick. Is your mom having financial troubles?"

As far as Nick was aware, Kelly had done some light pillaging in Cos after destroying the second coin, so she should be ok. "Not that I know of. Why?" He looked up from his two-page directory of meek wesen and glanced over at Hank and Monroe, who were staring at Hank's Ipad, transfixed.

"Just 'cause there's stuff cropping up on e-bay which has… well… let's say it has limited sources, dude. I found _these_ because I was looking for fingerless gloves…"

Nick stared at the screen and felt his breakfast try to make a cameo reappearance. He stuffed his knuckles in his mouth to suppress the moment of nausea. A hairy, detached Blutbad hand sat on a table with fingers and thumb clawed upwards, making a little bowl. The description read: _ Gothic art, 'Gloveless fingers'. Good gift for unwanted mother in law, or perhaps an ashtray. Available in sets of two._

"…and if you filter by her seller's profile, there's more." Monroe clicked back to a different tab on the browser and Nick gaped at the items on display. Hank lost his own breakfast battle and sprinted off to Monroe's toilet, making room for Nick to sit beside Monroe. His mom had been _busy_.

_Bloody Morning Star, two spikes missing. Sits neatly flat on table. Makes good bill spike. Can be rinsed before posting at buyer's request._

_Spare ornamental scythe – owner no longer needs. Extra postage on bubble-wrap._

_Ogre-shaped gift containers – can be wrapped._

_Gothic taxidermy gift: "Das Jagerbar." Life-size. Available only on collection._

_Living nightmares tee-shirt selection. Buy one, get one free._

Nick and Monroe enlarged the graphic for the range of teeshirts, which essentially featured a fat-outline print drawing of the lamprey-like Lebensauger in neon pink, yellow or lime green against black fabric. Nick could only stare at Monroe, who shrugged helplessly.

"Hey, don't make me choose, man! They're all so _beautiful_!"

Nick scratched the back of his head distressedly. "What the hell's she doing? Has she got a seller's handling name?"

Monroe squinted. "Uh… GrimKellyB. Real subtle. She may as well call herself Mommy_Burkhardt's_Not_Dead_Yet_HA_HA."

"I need to make a call." Nick whipped his cell out and was about to send his mom an SOS when something occurred to him. "Er… Monroe – she's a creature of habit. If she's used that handle on e-bay, she'll use the same one everyone else. Just like her pin number. Could you…"

Monroe rolled his eyes and muttered. "Google her? Sure! Got nothing better to do. _There's_ a happy hour of my life I'm not getting back…"

As his friend bent over the tablet and hammered away, Nick walked out into Monroe's yard and dialled his mom's number. As always, he got her voicemail: "only one person has this number – if you are not he, I will track you down and destroy you," and left a short message to assure her that he didn't need destroying, but would like a call sometime very soon, please.

"OH MY GOD!"

Nick darted back into the house and found Monroe pressing himself back in his seat, keeping as much distance as possible between him and the tablet, like it was a bomb about to go off. Nick shook his shoulders gently. "What?"

Monroe pointed a shaky finger at ETSY, the handmade-and-vintage seller's site where there was a picture up on the screen of a big, fat comb, decorated with flowers along the bottom. The comb teeth were…

Nick gasped. "Are those…. Mauvais dentes'…"

"Yeah," Monroe choked. "Intriguing way of getting rid of the evidence. But I have to say, I couldn't be without one of these…" he scrolled down GrimKellyB's profile page to show what looked like a custard jug, only it was decorated on the side with a picture of a woodcutter cutting a wolf into a large number of tiny pieces, and the rest of the jug was decorated in drops of red arterial-style spray. "Are these intended as gifts? Are you supposed to like, show your appreciation to your nearest and dearest by offering them gory crockery, or what? I'm not even sure it's safe to serve out of that thing!"

Nick was saved from the necessity of making excuses for his mom's mental health when she returned his call. She sounded extremely cheerful, which worried him instantly.

"Hey Nicky! How's tricks?"

"Uh… tricky. Mom – should I wire you some money?"

"No, I'm fine. Why do you ask? Do you have some spare to wire?"

"HOLY CRAP!"

Nick moved further from the ipad while Monroe perused the list of handmade items, asking if any of them came with free tetanus shots. "Uh, not really, but if it'll stop you from trying to raise funds by putting Grimm armoury on e-bay―"

"Oh, that."

"Yeah, that! Why don't you just start your own website? Grimm Homewares dot com?"

"My stocks are low. Oh, chill out. Most of it's gothic art anyway. People won't even know where it's all come from. You'd be surprised what people will buy. I've shifted fifty pink Lebensauger tee-shirts already. It's nearly paid for the dishwasher."

"So, if you're not trying to raise money―"

"I'm de-cluttering, Nick. I've been speaking to a very nice lady twice a week for an hour at a time, and she's told me that I'm hanging on to my past too hard."

Nick felt hopeful. "Does this mean that custard jugs featuring homicidal designs are now… part of your past?"

"No, that's therapy. Hang on – you've just seen that? It's still there? Damn – I'd hoped I'd sold that one."

"Mom – topic evasion! Could you please de-clutter less publicly and stop selling deadly items on e-bay and Etsy?"

"Oh…. Fine. Tell you what – come round, bring Monroe and Hank, and we'll have lunch."

This sounded slightly more normal. Slightly more hospitable than normal, sure, but a good thing. "Fine. Sunday?"

"Wonderful. See you guys then. And after lunch, we can have a yard sale."


	3. 12 Days of Biber Xmas

**Good afternoon all… some seasonal silliness! I was just wondering… what would happen if the Eisbibers took the whole 12-days-of-Christmas generosity literally? Anyone remember that diabolical song?**

**I have no idea what **_**anyone**_** would do with the barmy parade of gifts in the original song, but I thought I'd have fun adapting it a bit to the world of Grimm…**

* * *

**On the first day of Christmas, a Biber gave to me… a Geier in a pear tree!**

From: Nick UFRS . org . com

To: Bud fixyourfridge . com

Subject: cheers!

Dear Bud

Thanks very much for the pear tree! One of my neighbours has helped me to plant it in the communal area of our apartment block – in exchange for future fruit. The Geier was a bit of a surprise. It took me a little while to help my neighbour recover from her panic attack. But, having done his mandatory leap, the Geier made his own way home. He had things to do, apparently. I'm looking forward to the fruit! Will drop your gift off later

Thanks again

Nick

* * *

**On the second day of Xmas, a Biber gave to me… two purple gloves…**

Hank and Nick were two miles into the borders of Mount Hood by the time Hank cracked and had to say something about Nick's new apparel. "So… the gloves! Present from your mom?"

Nick looked bemused. "No, Bud and his wife. Why? Is there something significantly 'Grimm' about purple gloves?"

"Hey, you're the Grimm, not me. No, I just thought that they were made by people who really… cared about you."

"Ok, so they're knitted. And a little bobbly. But to be able to feel my fingers up here? I can live with that."

"Did you look at them before you put them on?" Hank fought with a smirk and the smirk won hands down.

"No, I kinda just stuffed them on." Nick holstered his gun and flipped his hands palm-down, then palm-up, then... groaned. "Oh you're kidding me."

Hank pushed his way through the shrub, grinning hugely. "I think it's kind of cute that they feel the need to remind a Grimm which hand is left, and which is right. Especially when they take the time to lovingly knit L and R into the pattern…"

* * *

**On the third day of Xmas, a Biber gave to me… three French hens…**

From: Nick UFRS . org . com

To: Bud fixyourfridge . com

Subject: you're TOO kind

Hey Bud

Thanks for the hens left on my doorstep. They're quite hungry beasts and have sadly already eaten the purple gloves you left me yesterday. I was hoping, since you left them as a gift, that you might have some advice on upkeep. Firstly, are they safe with pizza? As in will it poison them? I've noticed that pizza isn't safe around them, at least. Secondly, can they fly? Because they're slightly agoraphobic, running around in panicked circles in my kitchen, and I thought they might be happier outside in the pear tree only I don't want to go up there with a ladder and a small hammock for them if they're going to fall out.

I really appreciate the thought that's gone into this season's gifts, but can I ask a favour? No more animals, please? I live in a very small flat now with thin walls and scared birds make a hell of a noise.

My regards to the lodge. See you tomorrow for the Xmas dinner

Nick

* * *

**On the fourth day of Xmas a Biber sent to me… 4 tetchy Drangzorns….**

"Ok, so I'll be around yours at about nine…" Nick swigged on his beer and chuckled as Monroe reeled through his list of planned festivities from Christmas eve onwards. They sounded _hectic. _The doorbell rang and Nick went to answer, still trying to keep up with Monroe. Opening the door was like being hit by a wall of terrible sound: four carol singers, noisy and insistent, yelled good King Wenceslas at him like their lives depended on it, each demonstrating their own individual knack for tunelessness.

"What is that?" Monroe demanded from the other end of the line.

"Um… carol-shouters?"

"They're _awful!_"

The insult caused wogeing all round and Nick found himself closed in on his own doorstep by four furious faces, one of whom launched into a particularly punitive version of Jingle Bells, closely followed by the others.

"Uh… they're also Drangzorn. Please don't make me agree with you out loud or they'll come at me―"

"PAY ATTENTION! WE ARE SINGING!"

Nick backed up a couple of involuntary steps and nearly tripped over his own coffee table, which the 'singing' Drangzorn took as their cue to move in. "Uh Monroe, I'd better go. I think they're planning a…medley."

"God. Good luck Nick!" Monroe rang off, leaving Nick to drop back on his sofa, surrounded, and then he endured one of the most painful half hours of his life as they worked their way through The Holly and the Ivy, far-from-silent night, and the first No-hell. His head was ringing by the time they'd finished and took a group bow.

"WITH LOVE FROM THE LODGE!" the tallest of the Drangs barked at him, and they disappeared into the night.

* * *

**On the fifth day of Xmas some Bibers gave to me… five gold… things(?)**

Nick finished his dinner, shared pleasantries with his Eisbiber neighbours on either side on the big round table, and attempted to sneak off into the night while he was still legal to drive and get the hell home and into bed. He got as far as the bottom of the steps leading out of the lodge cellar and into the opening when he ran into the Lodgemaster who blocked his way beamingly and holding an ancient-looking box.

"This is just a small token of appreciation for our esteemed Grimm―"

"Um.. this _really_ isn't necessary. I've had a lovely evening, the carol-singers were… enthusiastic…"

"Come on! Open up!"

Nick took the box hesitantly and opened it as eagerly as he'd unwrap a suspect package. The glow inside the box hurt his eyeballs and he had to squint a moment before he could focus. Five golden balls. No, not balls – ball-shaped. They were golden, but fluffy. Moving. Gold, fluffy, unidentifiable pets. He smiled weakly. "What are these?"

The Lodgemaster looked really pleased with himself. "Firstborn Seltenvogel chicks! They burst out of the rock after they've been incubating for a week. Enjoy!"

Nick put his hand in the box and one of the balls shuffled into his palm, tickling him with tiny feet. It squeaked meekly at him and stuck a feathery head out from its body. "What do they eat?"

"Oh, I daresay they'll eat whatever you eat. They're very affectionate when they get to know you."

Nick winced. "And until they get to know you…? OW!" the pup nipped a finger by way of answer and he popped it hastily back into the box.

Nick got in his car, box on the front seat, and drove round to Monroe's. after fifteen minutes of Monroe and Rosalee pretending that they weren't in, he took the squeaking box home, popped some water into the box, and used the chicks as a bedside light.

* * *

**On the sixth day of Xmas, some Bibers gave to me.. six geese a-laying…**

From: Nick UFRS . org . com

To: Secretariat Portland_Lodge . org . com

Subject: Please no more birds!

Dear Lodgemasters

Thanks for the six geese. I found them on my fire escape this morning, making an egg-pile. My neighbours are now not speaking to me because of the honking, the crapping, the attempt to bite the local cats and their very noisy fights with the three French hens in the pear-tree. Because of the French hens (which appear very precious about their personal space), they need to be kept indoors and it is no longer safe to take a bath, shower, or generally leave them unattended for more than a couple of minutes. I'm sorry to say this, but I've had to take them to a local wildlife centre to be re-homed. I also took the seltenvogel chicks, which appear to have decided that the geese are their parents and follow them everywhere. Please do not take this personally, but I'm a busy Grimm with a full-time job and, as I've pointed out to Bud, a very small apartment.

You're very kind, but please – no more birds.

Thanks

Nick

* * *

**On the seventh day of Xmas some Bibers gave to me… seven snoring Siegbarstes**

From: Nick UFRS . org . com

To: Secretariat Portland_Lodge . org . com

Subject: STOP!

lodgemasters

Firstly thank you for the kind thought behind the recent onslaught of gifts. I know you mean well but I fear that some of your ideas are not very fully thought-through. I'm not exactly sure what I was supposed to do with a mini-van full of snoring Siegbarstes? They were neither ornamental nor melodic while asleep, and on waking, slightly homicidal to find themselves half-drugged in a mini-van staring at a Grimm. What did you think I was going to do? Have them to stay for a sleepover? Keep them in the garage? Take them for a beer? And how on earth did you round up SEVEN of them? I am now trying to find a substance strong enough to re-drug them with so that I can release them into the wild. I really prefer things a bit more traditional.

Not wishing to be ungracious, but no more birds/livestock/Siegbarstes, please.

Thanks

Nick

* * *

**On the eighth day of Xmas some Bibers sent to me… 8 maids-a-milking!**

From: Nick UFRS . org . com

To: Secretariat Portland_Lodge . org . com

Subject: WTF?

Dear lodge,

Ok, when I say that I prefer things a bit more traditional, I'm talking about socks, wine, rare beer, chocolate coins, that kind of stuff. Not eight maids milking. What in God's name am I going to do with eight maids hell-bent on milking? I HAVE NO COWS. In the absence of cows, the poor girls have been sitting around, clenching and unclenching their fists, looking lost, libidinous and weird. This is when they're not being terrorised by the Siegbarstes, who are still hanging around, by the way, because I've been too busy protecting the maids from being dragged into the bedroom to milk 'other things' to go out and get the stuff to drug the Siegbarstes with.

Please, please stop with the noisy gifts? I really don't want to get evicted!

Grimmly,

Nick

* * *

**On the tenth day of Xmas some Bibers sent to me… ten Lloronas lurking…**

Nick got up, swung his legs out of bed and staggered towards the shower room. The day before seemed like a really bad dream. He'd got home from work to find nine ladies waiting for him on his first floor landing and as soon as he appeared, they switched on a tape player and launched straight into the Can-Can. He'd only just dropped all the Siegbarstes off into the wilderness, and then driven the milking maids off at the Repetitive Strain Injury clinic. It then took three overnight shifts to leave all the dancers at Barry Rabe's frat house at Portland State. He felt like a walking ache.

He swung open the bathroom door to be met with a vision of white – a fast-moving vision of white that came right up into his face and knocked him flat. The ghostly female face of a Llorona hovered above his for a few seconds and then, once determining that he was neither a boy nor girl of ages 7-10 years old, floated morosely back into his shower.

"Right. This means war!" Nick stomped to the kitchen to wash there instead, pulled some clothes on and called Monroe.

"Morning, Nick. And what's the ridiculous query of the day?"

"Do you know a wesen exorcist?"

"Uh Nick… I'll be honest. You've really got me stumped on that one. I may know someone, but it's more like they've got a fixation on Poltergeist than anything else. What's the problem?"

Nick explained.

"Oh man. You know, this isn't really my area. They're technically not … wesen. But if they can be rounded up to be taken to your place―"

"―Then they can be rounded up and taken to the lodge. I want them to haunt the Eisbibers' private Jacuzzi instead. See how they like _that_."

* * *

**On the eleventh day of Xmas some Bibers gave to me…eleven pipers piping….**

Nick rapped his knuckles angrily against the doorjamb while he waited for Bud to pick up at the other end of the line. No matter where he moved in his apartment, all he could hear was the pack of Reinigen outside playing 'Greensleeves', and on a secondary level, he heard thumps of annoyance through his neighbours' walls, through his floor and above his head. The Reinigen were gathered in the communal yard, blasting away cheerfully. The dialling tone at the other end of the line clicked into voicemail and he heard Bud's blustering message. "If this is regarding a fridge fix, please leave a message. If this is regarding a bunch of noisy musicians, it's not my fault – it's the lodge – please, please don't kill me. Leave your message after the beep – a nice one, please – and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Nick gritted his teeth, didn't bother leaving a message, and went to get the crossbow that he kept under the cupboard for emergencies. Striding over to his rear window, he fired the crossbow into the pear tree, over the heads of the French hens, which went berserk and shat all over the pipe-playing Reinigen, scattering them everywhere. They trailed off, clearly sensing his lack of love for their performance, and filed out of the back yard dejectedly.

Nick slammed the rear window shut, waited for the angry neighbourly thudding to quit, then hit his laptop and his iphone. He had some things to do…

* * *

**On the twelfth day of Xmas, a cross Grimm sent to Biebs… **

Twelve drangzorns drumming

Eleven lebensaugers lounging

Ten lowen leaping

Nine mordstiers moping

Eight Bauerschwein bathing

Seven stangebar stretching

Six skalengek spitting

Five mellifer stings…

Four stoned siegbarstes

Three spent hens

Two purple gloves

And a Geier out of his tree.


	4. Wesen Wellness Centre's ER file

**Wesen Wellness Centre: Accident and Emergency room**

**Patient files: May-Nov 2012**

**Administrator – R. Calvert**

**Patient**: Nicholas Burkhardt

**Genus**: Grimm

**Presenting illness / injury**: Bruised ribs, slight left-sided breathlessness

**Cause**: Violently cuddled by a Lausenschlange.

**Treatment**: Oxygen and chest-strapping.

**condition on departure: **stable but irritated

**Patient**: Colin Slanger

**Genus**: Konigschlange

**Presenting illness / injury**: Damaged tongue

**Cause:** attempted to lick out Jagerbar's pulse during hibernation season. Failed to put tongue away before frostbite set in.

**Treatment**: half an hour sucking a radiator

**condition on departure:** speechless

**Patient**: Nicholas Burkhardt

**Genus**: Grimm

**Presenting illness / injury**: Hyperthermia

**Cause:** Found unconscious and handcuffed in a sauna, tied into a fur coat. Patient unwilling to comment, explain or expand upon circumstances.

**Treatment**: Rapid-spray cooling & sedation.

**condition on departure:** woozy and still steaming

**Patient**: Edward Monroe

**Genus**: Blutbad

**Presenting illness / injury**: lacerated fingers

**Cause:** pay window of McDonald's drive-in slammed down on hands following a sudden and wild weakness for five Big-Macs

**Treatment**: bandages and a cuddle

**condition on departure: **mincing around.

**Patient**: Nicholas Burkhardt

**Genus**: Grimm

**Presenting illness / injury**: furball in ear

**Cause:** coughed at by a Klaustreich with Bronchitis

**Treatment**: removal of said furball, antibiotics via assourdissant.

**condition on departure: **unsteady

**Patient**: Henry Griffin

**Genus**: Human

**Presenting illness / injury**: Limitless and debilitating erection

**Cause:** Displeased Hexenbiest

**Treatment**: Two hours of Lebensauger porn.

**condition on departure: **deflated.

**Patient**: Nicholas Burkhardt

**Genus**: Grimm

**Presenting illness / injury**: Paranoia

**Cause:** Followed around by 43 Seelengut

**Treatment**: Isolation in locked room

**condition on departure: **sheepish

**Patient**: Dennis Miller

**Genus**: Homo-Siegbarste (Gemischt - mixed genus Wesen)

**Presenting illness / injury**: severe allergy symptoms

**Cause:** downed half a carton of blood-orange juice before realising it contained 'added calcium'

**Treatment**: epi-pen and bed-rest

**condition on departure: **sanguine

**Patient**: Yett E Kennedy

**Genus**: Wildermann

**Presenting illness / injury**: hypothermia

**Cause:** teenagers stole tent and pissed on fire in middle of winter

**Treatment**: heat blanket

**condition on departure:** hairy

**Patient**: Nicholas Burkhardt

**Genus**: Grimm

**Presenting illness / injury**: shoulder laceration

**Cause:** poorly-aimed kiss by myopic, fun-sized, Blutbad teenage girl with braces

**Treatment**: stitches

**condition on departure: **traumatised

**Patient**: Lieutenant Jan Vergeer

**Genus**: Koninglowen (Lion King)

**Presenting illness / injury**: Completely stoned and amorous

**Cause:** Giving talk about public safety at the botanical gardens during catnip-burning season

**Treatment**: Oxygen and repeated slaps around face

**condition on departure: **feels like lyin' around

**Patient**: Nicholas Burkhardt

**Genus**: Grimm

**Presenting illness / injury**: extended bruising to inner leg and groin area

**Cause:** rescued infant Klaustreich from tree, then fell onto garbage pails under tree

**Treatment**: IV painkillers and respectful silence

**condition on arrival: **boneless (has not left yet)

**Right folks… more silliness coming up soon… but I thought it would be fun to lay down a challenge over the quieter 'Grimm' month for you US folks until the second half of the season kicks off again in the new year. If anyone wants to write the world's silliest whump story based on any of these scenarios, I'd be delighted to read it, tee hee. Just PM me to let me know if you've posted one!**


	5. Monroe's Grimm Glossary

**I don't know how many people are acquainted with the concept of the 'Book of Liff', but basically it is a dictionary of words for things that there ****_should_**** be words for, but aren't. The words are place names throughout the world, which have no better current purposes than sitting on signposts, so they are annexed and given a purpose in life. **

**I thought I'd have a go at applying the principle to Grimm. And here we are – Monroe's growing glossary of all things wesen/Grimm….**

* * *

**Adlestrop (noun): **The outward expression of your average Hexenbiest's inability to accept that certain shopping list items are _out of stock_.

* * *

**Articlave (noun)**: A particularly unpromising offer on a piece of wesen junkmail. For example:

Had an accident at home or work that wasn't your fault?

**_Blame a Hexenbiest!_**

_Dial 0800 SUE WITCH _to get your just recompense.

Ps – management bear no liability for hexes placed after monies secured._"_

* * *

**Baughurst (pr. Noun) : **A particularly dim sub-species of Hasslich (troll). For example, one believing that the next richer and mightier Ziegvolk driving over his bridge is going to be more willing to hand over his Rolex, powersuit and keys to his Alfa Romeo than the previous two that have just got away.

* * *

**Boscastle (noun): **the pile of carelessly-stacked and deadly weapons behind an armoury door that causes instant peril whenever the door is flung open purposefully. It has been the cause of many a damaged Grimm, as in the memoires of Marie Kessler: "I would have sought him out and killed him immediately, had it not been for the unfortunate crossbow bolt fired by my Boscastle."

* * *

**Dinder (vb): **to swiftly adopt ear-protective device. As in: "When Murcilagen Mary took to the microphone to perform Wuthering Heights for her school talent contest, there was much dindering throughout the sports hall as people reached for earmuffs."

* * *

**Dalmilling (vb): **To practice a particularly ruthless form of wesen cheating. For example, a mellifer entering a spelling bee, a Genio Innocuo starring on 'Millionaire' or a Llorona competing in the 200 meter freestyle maybe be reasonably accused of practicing 'dalmilling'.

* * *

**Fring (noun): **The sound made by a cross-bow bolt as it glances off a lamp-post. The drunkenness of a Grimm can usually be determined by the repetitiveness and loudness of his frings.

* * *

**Fulking (vb): **The evasive practice of hiding in the cellar when the Hexenbiest comes shopping.

* * *

**Gildersome (adj): **(of Hundjagers) Descriptive of the kind of contract job that starts promisingly, but once one has been dropped down a pot hole, sued by a Jagerbar, and been subjected to the wild raspberry of the Lebensauger, the contract is considered 'gildersome', or 'not worth the ****king money'.

* * *

**Grabilaps: (noun) ** A particularly violent form of sudden amnesia that strikes Grimms. A Grimm is suffering a Grabilapse when he wrenches open the doors of his armoury and cannot remember for the life of him which weapon he went in there for, or indeed, which wesen he intended to wipe out with it in the first place. The answer will typically occur to him either after he's locked up in frustration, or when he's halfway home.

* * *

**Hever (noun): **(qv Adlestrop): The sudden panic or agitated state experienced by till-working Maushertzen when they realise that their next customer is a Hexenbiest. This is usually because they have failed to exercise 'fulking' quickly enough.

* * *

**Jofane (noun)**: Any obscenely expensive, and water-tight civil writ drawn up by a Jagerbar lawyer to reclaim the costs of criminal behaviour. Traditional recipients of Jofanes are: housebreakers of the blonde persuasion (guilty of breaking-and-redecorating, scavenging, and bed-breaking); Blutbaden (Grand Matricide); and Bauerschweine (excessive force – leaving all the aga rings on underneath the flue is probably excessive force).

* * *

**Kirby (noun): **Any bit of wesen that will not come out of the hilt of a reaper's scythe, however much it is scrubbed.

* * *

**Nubbock (noun): **An Eisbiber that renders a Grimm homicidal for continually grovels for not being able to stop grovelling.

* * *

**Randipun (noun)**: a particularly wearisome type of wordplay insisted upon by the directors of wesen porn to make their products stand out on the shelf. Fifty Schades of Grey and the Miceman Cometh are examples of 2012's conspicuously painful efforts.

* * *

**Satterthwaite (vb)**: To hurriedly rearrange one's seating or position so that you are not stuck next to the Siegbarste. This action has featured in much teenage wesen romance of yesteryear: "Brax and Mindy held hands as they sought out their seats at the back of the theatre, aware only of each other and their longing to kiss, ignorant of the satterthwaiting taking place around them as the Siegbarste drew ever closer with popcorn."

* * *

**Skagway (noun)**: The path through the woods upon which all the local animals have recently crapped. It is every Grimm's nightmare to be faced with a skagway when pursuing high-speed wesen in the dark.

* * *

**Stibbard (noun): **the spike in online buying enjoyed by freight container companies when a Grimm moves into a Drang-zorn area.

* * *

**Surby (adj): **Descriptive of the uncompromising facial force of 'NO'. Seen annually upon the face of Prince Renard when asked to be Santa at the Portland Lebensauger nursery grotto.

* * *

**Tiddlywink (noun): **the member of the lowen pride who can always be relied upon to alert prey to their communal presence by sneaking off for a pee in the middle of a group stalk.

* * *

**Trunch (noun): **A rough-edged implement used to file a Dickfellig horn. When a Dickfellig is unable to order a new trunch online for whatever reason, they will resort to using a cheese-grater. It is wise to steer clear of the parmesan in the home of a Dickfellig who has recently mislaid his trunch.

* * *

**Willimantic (adj): **Descriptive of a gay Ziegvolk's unsubtle behaviour in a male-only nightclub, particularly after consuming one too many Sonaran Margheritas.


	6. Damn that phone!

**No-one is safe from the vagaries of modern technology, not even Nick and co... **

**I've spent the last few months getting used to the world's worst Nokia phone (ridiculous dictionary) and got a new iPad, as have several friends. It took us a fair while to get on top of the fact that we have to push that little blue cross to reject a ridiculous spelling suggestion, so some of our communications have been dubious, to say the least. On top of that, I have a tendency to use my commute to write sections of story using the character writer programme in my iPad and to begin with, it did ****_not_**** like Grimm terminology, lol. So I've gathered all the typos, bad-thumb moment and auto-correct nightmares and had some fun with them...**

**Hope you enjoy! **

**XxX**

Hank: I think we've got a hit on Mr Jones' position

Nick: Good but wait for me to get there. He's a vicious blurt out

Nick: Blutbad, sorry.

Hank: I was going to ask, man! It's not his gossip I'm worried about, lol

* * *

Monroe: If you're busting in on Marie Sopes, take total protective gear. She may be masturbating.

Nick: WTH? How would you even know this?

Monroe: goddam autocorrect! Murcielago! Not masturbating!

* * *

Hank: what can I get R for her birthday?

Nick: Maybe just some cutesy little thongs for the house

Hank: a little personal, maybe :/ ?

Nick: thugs, not thongs

Hank: still not ideal. Lmao!

Nick: FFS! Little THINGS.

Hank: I'm sure M would love the cutesy little thugs Lololol

* * *

Monroe: Hey N, you may want to know, I ran into Ariel. She's working at Franco's bakery.

Nick: a daemonfeuer at a bakery? Sounds like cheating

Monroe: don't go visiting though. She's in rehab but still a bunny-boiler with the hots for you. You may end up with severe buns

Nick: lmao! All Franco's buns are severe

Nick: hey, how come my iPhone can handle daemonfeuer, but yours can't handle burns? Lol!

* * *

Hank: I think there's a dick felling babe working at the gym. Could you come by and check?

Nick: It's the Grimm's grand day off today. Don't want to see any babes felling dicks :D

* * *

Adalind: your driver has let me down. You're going to have to oil me up at the airport.

Renard: what is this? Fifty Schades of Grey? I don't know what you got used to with Eric, but oil yourself up.

Adalind: PICK me up. Wise ass.

* * *

Monroe: dude I am in trouble. Have lost the spare Jews for nick's armoury. Got one I can borrow?

Hank: nick has spare Jews in his armoury? That is not PC! Where did you see them last?

Monroe: keys, not Jews. Epic fail.

* * *

Nick: could you leave your beetle outside my grave while I'm away? I want people to think I'm still around.

Monroe: man, if I leave my car by your grave, people are going to KNOW you're not around.

Nick: uh? I'm going to new york, I'm not dying.

Monroe: ;) re-read your text

Nick: gah. I meant garage. Htf did that happen?

* * *

Nick: I think we're being followed by a hound jagger.

Hank: I always knew the Stones were going to the dogs, but that's ridiculous, lol.

* * *

Nick: you grab paperwork, I'll grab pizza on way back

Hank: Almighty Nick

Nick: it's just a pizza. No big deal, but you're welcome, lol

* * *

Nick: ok, just finishing up here then will be home around seven.

Juliette: you eating with me?

Nick: that would be great. Then maybe we can just watch a movie and handcuff

Juliette: what kind of movie did you have in mind? :o

Nick: God no! no no no. Not handcuff! hang out!

Juliette: this is why our relationship is struggling ;)

* * *

Renard: Lieutenant, have finished budget and ejaculations. Will share results with you shortly

Lt Jan: with respects, I'd rather you didn't, Sir

Renard: Apologies, autocorrect. Escalations

* * *

Monroe: cool article about you guys in the paper after your llorona rescue!

Nick: what does it say?

Hank: give us the glory, come on!

Monroe: calls you the bravest defectives in the police force.

Nick: charming!

Monroe: gnnn, I meant the bravest detectives in the police farce

Hank: your thumbs are too big for that keypad :D :D

Monroe: damn it, read it yourselves...

* * *

Renard: gentlemen, need to stay in Vienna for conference. I know you feel you need extra support right now but I'm leaving Lt. Vergeer in charge. He is orally competent

Nick: I don't plan to challenge that statement.

Hank: night off please, sir?

Renard: Error. Totally competent.

Renard: repeat this conversation and you're both working traffic.

* * *

Nick: what you up to this evening?

Monroe: my night is foresworn to banging with Rosalee. Do not distract me

Nick: I knew something was going on with you guys :)

Monroe: hanging, perv!

* * *

Nick: have cut all ties with juliette. She doesn't even have her own dungeon any more :(

Hank: um... I'm understanding why she was struggling with the relationship. No offence. Her own dungeon?

Nick: WTF? How is ringtone even close to dungeon?


	7. An unfortunate series of Grimm incidents

**March 2014…. **

**To fund the further development of the ER wing of the Wesen Wellness Centre, Monroe has become Nick's biographer and recounted his more gallant exploits in true, loyal style. Of course, the 'Limitless tales of Grimm Incidents' requires marketing to get off the ground in the Wesen community, which involves Monroe giving talks and signings at bookshops, which involves Nick tagging along (with supportive friends) as the hero of the piece… **

**A couple of these unfortunate Grimm shenanigans were covered in the Wesen Wellness Centre's sick files (chapter 4 of the Grimm Grimmoire) and I'm just filling in silly backstory….**

**Any stylistic similarities to 'a series of unfortunate incidents' by Lemony Snickett are entirely deliberate. I hope you enjoy! Thanks a million to all who have read, reviewed, followed or favourited thus far.**

**X x X**

Nick and Hank took their places at the back of the bookstore, both giving a cheery thumbs-up to Monroe as he sat at the very front of the intent crowd, looking sober and respectable yet completely shit-scared in his satin smoking jacket and corduroy trousers. He lowered himself into the Victorian leather chair with gravitas and solemnity. Nick leant over to Hank, curious, keeping his voice quiet and out of pitch of the Captain – who sat to the right of Hank.

"That was a slow sit. Has he developed piles?"

"He's been grave and solemn since he got an agent, man. Painful stuff. But it's pulling the funds in and it's helping emergency-struck wesen, so – whatever. They probably need the funds for your dedicated room, alone."

"Ha." Nick straightened as the lights dimmed and Monroe pulled the leather-bound book from the coffee table onto his lap, looking very upset. Nick frowned. Had he died and someone forgot to mention it to him?

"I have been told," Monroe began, "that the only way to prepare an audience for the difficulties to come is to use some kind of clue in the title of one's work that gives some clue of the sadness yet to unfold. Much of what I must describe of the valliant efforts of our mutually-friendly Grimm is too painful for me to articulate in the invented word. So I must recourse, I fear, to the slack yet strategic borrowing of movie names from popular culture, to give a hint of what lies ahead. Thus, this first tale is called 'The Swarm'.

Nick scratched his head and hid behind his beer, not liking the sound of this. Perhaps he should have read and reviewed the FedExed galley proof of the transcript as offered, rather than pelt off through the night in search of the drunken Koningschlange.

"Most people know a sinister shed when they see it. The cobwebs, glowering trowels in the windows and 20-watt bulbs give it away. Most people would shy from such a shed, giving it as wide a berth as possible. But they, while undoubtedly wise, are cowards – unlike the Grimm hero of this tale."

Nick shrugged. Ok – a bit heavy-handed in the language, but not bad on the moral marketing.

"No, this Grimm, having heard tell of an agoraphobic resident bearing arms and terrorising the neighbourhood, strode straight into the shed of the home of said resident in search of the terror himself and his weapons. He was poised with gun, ready to take him down if it proved sadly necessary to do so. For, I must report, this Grimm was no ordinary Grimm but a law-abiding member of the Portland Police Department, authorised to take down such an individual with deadly force."

There was much muttering around the bookstore along the lines of 'never!', which Nick found quite gratifying. He swigged his beer, and shared a pleased glance with Hank.

"No sooner had this shed door closed, clicking firmly with the uncompromising snick of the Yale self-slamming 2001 special, a great swarm of bees rose up around the flimsy outbuilding, giving our fair Grimm the creeps. For it is no secret that the youngster cannot be abroad without his Epipen for fear of an untimely sting. The swarm showed no sign of abating and many of its number slammed pointlessly yet alarmingly against the flimsy window, demanding entry. With an anxious view of the size of the shed's keyhole, our hero called me in a manly state of wilfully-contained panic.

"It was a difficult conversation – I will not mislead you on this point. I asked if he knew to whom the bees belonged, and he reported that ―alas ―he had no clue, for the bees elected not to wear collars or name tags. I initially suspected a shade of sarcasm in his tone, but overlooked this in the gravity of his situation. His first suggestion was sound. He asked that I tracked down another apiarist, ideally not agoraphobic, bearing arms or angry, and requested their assistance in gassing the bees temporarily to aid his escape from the shed. It was then that I surmised, from the struggling at his end of the phone, that the agoraphobic apiarist had appeared from beneath a table in the shed and had threatened him with all manners of unpleasantness if he did a single thing to harm his bees."

Nick's recollection of this particular nightmare pinged into nasty, technicolour life in his mind's eye and he was tempted to take cover under Hank's jacket. Hank's jacket was full of Hank, sniggering quietly into it.

"Recognising the cluttered features of the woged Mellifer, our mild-mannered Grimm sought to assure that no harm would come to the bees if at all possible. For this gentle and non-violent communication, he won a shovel around the back of the head and a swift, undignified undressing, followed by a handcuffing at the rear. It was an unrewarding exchange, explained to him upon his awakening that the bees were not ordinary, and that great harm would come to any who attempted to gas these bees. Our Groggy Grimm retorted that great harm had come to him anyway, and could he please have his clothes back, but the apiarist was unrepentant and booted him out of the shed, clad only in underwear and an ancient fur coat used erstwhile as a shed rug.

"It was awful for me to have heard this exchange second-hand, unable to assist, as sounds of his fur-clad distress echoed from the floor of the shed from his unattended and forgotten phone. Luck was with me slightly, for I was able to contact the tireless Detective Griffin, who carried out an exercise upon the phone which is known to those in the know as 'triangulation' to work out where the bloody hell the captive Grimm was. Thusly, a rescue attempt was underway, instigated by yours truly.

"I am relieved to report a brief interlude of luck in the Grimm's tidings. The bees had never seen a slowly-moving hairy rock, were surprised by it, and much inclined to leave it well alone. Hence our brave Grimm was able to creep two metres undercover towards the house to seek help without stinging molestation from the mellifer's confused compatriots. But there his luck ended, cruelly, for the wooden slats covering the agoraphobic's underground sauna gave way under his hunkering gait and he dropped six feet into 115 degrees of unforgiving, blazing steam, unable to escape. It was in such an underdressed yet wildly hyperthermic condition that I found him, draped limply over the pine decks, cuffed and wreathed in fur. I hesitate to admit the immediacy and selflessness of my response as I arrived with the tireless Detective Griffin, but steam holds no fear for even the twitchiest of Blutbaden, and I whisked our friendly Grimm out of there in a trice through the simple art of abseiling and upward flinging of barely-dressed patients. There was much enforced showering with tepid water, and grave murmurings about his welfare. It is a fortunate, yet unexpected thing, that he continues to sit among us today."

Monroe's short, sorrowful pause was followed by a smattering of awed applause, and a barely-silent snort from the Captain's general direction. Nick was having second thoughts about this. Gallant he may be, but also the complete pillock to Monroe's unhesitant and heroic blutbad. He grabbed a second and reserve beer from the tray as it was passed around. There was a fractional interval, and then Monroe plunged on.

"_This_ story, I regret to report, is full of misery, agony, and onomatopoeic expressions of pain as suffered by a young Grimm," Monroe intoned. "I do _not_ wish to tell this story."

"Well don't, then!" Nick offered hotly from the back of the room, still steaming at the indignity of 'the swarm', and was immediately encircled by Jagerbar security, warning him respectfully that they had been given instructions to remove unruly or interrupting Grimms from the premises.

"This story is called the thirty-nine steps."

Groaning inwardly, Nick pulled his dark green hoodie over his face and slunk down his seat.

"It is said that Grimms are murderous and ungallant souls. Not so this one. For he heard that a vertiginous Maushertz was stuck, adhesive with fear, to the outside of the North Portland water tower while on a harmless sightseeing excursion. Being pure of spirit, he ventured upwards to his aid, having been made aware that the Maushertz' degree of mortal fear prevented his ears from retracting naturally as they should do. There was to be no natural form of rescue for this Maushertz while his aural appendages protruded thusly. Sadly, disaster struck for our luckless Grimm."

"What, _more_ disaster?" Hank hissed.

"For while this sweet-natured and gallant soul had persuaded the Maushertz gentleman to look askance from the edge long enough to bring him safely away from this perilous panorama, such was the shreddedness of this gentleman's nerves that he trod on the fair Grimm's shoelaces at the very top of the tower steps."

Nick's cheeks flamed on cue as the reading group turned as one to regard him piteously, while Hank displayed his solidarity by concealing his helpless laughter in his coat sleeve.

"It is fortunate that he rolled at such a speed that he did not hit _every_ stair. Not as fortunate, perhaps, as failing to fall down the stairs in the first place, which would have been far more beneficial for all concerned. But we must count our blessings where we can find them. As it happened, our hapless hero bounced off every third stair. While I was in no position to record the moment for the veracity of my reports, I am satisfied that there is a sufficient degree of accuracy in me relating the audial quality of the Grimm's plummet with the following and proximate sequence of sounds: _Unh, ow, agh, oof, gnn, uhr, gah, 'fuck', ow, agh, ah-ah, AGH, OW, crump."_

There was much wailing of sirens and we were all very, _very_ concerned."

The Captain leant over quickly and apologetically. "I'm afraid I need to make a move, gentlemen. I'm in grave danger of being caught…chortling. No offence, Nick." And off he shot.

"Finally, because an evening can only contain so much angst, my last tale shall go by the name 'the Silence of the Lambs'. It is a dreadful tale of one man's brave attempt to overcome the terror of flock behaviour."

Nick frowned. Hang on – wasn't Monroe the rescuee in this particular scene? And – in fact ― weren't half the perps in this particular scenario well into their middle-years? Hardly 'lambs'? he folded his arms and glared silently at Monroe, who ignored him, wearing his wistful expression determinedly. Hank shared his gaze of discontent ― they both had vivid memories of an alarmed, albeit unhesistant, Blutbad standing on the edge of a bank of seats overlooking a row of painful pews, being hedged over the edge by a group of twitchy Seelenguten. _They_ had done the ass-saving on this particular occasion.

"This is not the tale of a thankless, endangered Blutbad facing the insensible wrath of a group of Presbyterian Seelengut led astray – no."

Ok, so not that story. Nick unfolded his arms slowly. Then what…

"This terribly sad escapade came some months later, emerging deep from the bowels of a death enquiry in the North Portland Trappist Seelengut Youth Church, during which our beloved Grimm suffered a terrible flashback of sheepish-following and succumbed to terrible feelings of dread and paranoia at being pursued."

Oh fuck. _This_ story. Nick climbed over the top of Hank and tried to make his exit through the military history aisle, which was blocked by a Schakal re-living the Second World War. This story was still in Monroe's medical records for the Wesen Wellness Centre – confidential, surely? He backed up into cookery and nearly concussed himself with a falling stack of heavy volumes about light dinners. He was _not_ sticking around for this.

"Our fair-mannered Grimm's reputation for expelling unsuitable church leaders had spread far and wide and thus the Trappist Youth Church had invited him ― invitation sadly mislaid ― to their silent and signed production of Nosferatu. Such is the timing of fate that he arrived during the dress rehearsal, where all faces were white, sheepish and ghastly, and not a sound was spoken, even when he dropped his carkeys in horror and they gathered around helpfully, gesturing wildly at close quarters that he may pick them up again. Not one to make a fuss or display panic, our disconcerted Grimm ran screaming down six flights of stairs and through the carpark, pursued persistently by those determined that he might be able to get in his car and drive away, if he found their acting that appalling. They helpfully pursued him by cab, foot and boat, never once catching up with him, until he arrived heaplike upon our doorstep, gibbering and heaving and needing a bit of a lie-down. Thus was the wretched horror of the silence of the lambs. Sedatives were required, hair was repeatedly ruffled, and we were all very, very worried."

The lights flicked back up in the main reading area as Monroe's narration trailed off, he won vigorous applause, and Nick got to his feet before anyone caught him grovelling through the pile of truffle-hunters monthly periodicals. He fumed. Now… there was fund-raising, marketing, telling the truth, and then just plain _embarrassing_ him. Hank joined him round the corner in the foraging section, unsurprised to find him steaming and plotting his own on-going autobiography, with all the gallant bits removed.

They darted round the corner and out of the bookshop before the signing started, armfuls of unsigned books clutched between them. Hank shrugged behind his pile.

"He had one thing right –pick names of stuff that's already been done. Why re-invent the wheel?"

Why indeed? Nick headed for Monroe's publicity beetle, put the books on the ground, and removed the front wheels, bricking them up with the books. Chapter 1 of the 'Grimm Grimmoire' – to be entitled 'Cry Wolf….'


	8. Nick's Police reports

**So Nick's a good artist.. but is he an artiste? Can he do the whole writing thing as well as the groovy drawing? As his life becomes more Grimm, his creative writing suffers just a _little_ bit….**

**April 2011: Pre-Grimm**

Nick had his computer booted up almost as soon as he and Hank were back at their desks and cracked his knuckles at the end of a stretch, itching to get the report underway. They'd been promised new report software, too, in which they could use tab and reverse tab to move around, use multiple windows for cross-reference and no longer have to depend on the damn mouse all the time. Joy! He logged in and rubbed his hands greedily as the ancient Dell clunked through the motions of setting up his personal profile. It was taking longer these days. He had to learn to be less of a hoarder on his G: drive.

It was a long, complex case where most of their breaks had come through reading body language and sheer persistence on his part, and cunning and lateral thinking on Hank's - and he was almost smug about how he was going to demonstrate the link between the Context of Crime (COC) and final closure. It was actually a really sad story of an estranged family with multiple deceit situations that had taken considerable time to unravel, going on the barest of physical evidence. But confessions had been made across the board and they'd come out of this looking goooood.

He got coffee, ignored Hank's sardonic expression as he took his partner's version of the notes, and wiggled his fingers keenly over the keyboard.

"Remember man, it's a report, right? Not a novel. Not a sonnet. The new Captain doesn't do the whole fluffy detail…thing."

"My detail is _not_ fluffy!"

"Just letting you know – Renard considers adjectives, adverbs, any details not leading to arrest status as fluff. The new software kind of reinforces his notion of writing rules. You've been warned."

The new software was joy for about five minutes. Instead of white on black in clunky text, it was black on white in bold American Typewriter font. He could copy and paste using ctrl. Way easier to read, scroll…. His report saved itself regularly. It offered him printouts at useful moments.

The joy ended after Nick had scrolled up and down the new form screen three or four times and not found the context-of-crime field.

"They've banished COC!" he yelled, making Hank drink his coffee all back to front.

"Say… w-what?"

"Where's COC? It _was_ right there, under the investigation process date section!"

Wu appeared at his right side and tapped further down the screen. "It's now _there_ – called background."

"Right... Thanks." Nick got on with it again while Hank went to clean up. Shock number two was that 'background' was limited to 300 words. He felt that someone was just out to kill his joy. All the beautiful paragraphs building up in his head in a seamless narrative back in Hank's car turned into a pile of so much disappointed, summarised dust and he started from scratch….

…**..**Ten minutes later, he was struggling to contain the family ties in that tiny, tiny box and he could feel waves of impatience blasting across the desk from Hank's side as he requested yet another synonym. "What's another word for chilly?"

"Cold."

Nick considered this, but it didn't fit. "No, that's too cold.

Hank threw his hands up. "Oh that's _too _cold?

"Moore's relationship with his father was cold – slightly better with his mom, which I'm writing up now."

"Wintry?"

"Perfect! Hank – you're so good at this." He typed vigorously, covering his relationships with his brother and step-sister at the same time – it was all clicking into place, and he might just manage 298 words.

"I don't want to be good at this. I want you to finish, print up, and show Renard. Then we can get our asses out of here and over to the bar!"

Nick looked up, wondering what Hank was getting all wound up about. "You don't have to wait."

"I do! Did you not get the email? We need to peer-review before we press 'submit'."

"Why?"

"To prevent certain people from sending detailed fluff to the Captain. I can't think who might have inspired all these changes of policies… Jesus. Just finish already, right? Quit asking me for euphemisms!"

Nick frowned. "Huh?"

"Different words for stuff."

"You mean synonyms. Euphemisms are… something else."

"What?"

"I thought you wanted me to finish up quick?"

Hank shrugged. "What can I say? You got me interested."

Nick tried to think of an example, then remembered the whole bunch of increasingly hilarious notes the cleaner had stuck up in the men's room for guys who couldn't aim straight or clean up, apparently. He'd been scanning them and sending them to the passive-aggressive notes website. "euphemism – it's kind like a word or phrase you use when you can't say what you actually mean in polite company. Take the men's room posters." He dug one of the latest out of his drawer and handed it to Hank, lunging to the printer to get the report printout while Hank looked at the poster. "These are great – they're getting really creative."

It said: "_Gentlemen! Although misfires occasionally happen, please follow standard protocol and police your brass before leaving the cubicle."_

Hank looked troubled, looked around, and handed the poster back hastily. "Ah, Nick… I don't think these were… never mind. Let me see that report."

Hank read it over, grunted from time to time, but only made one comment, in the procedure section at the end of the last sentence. "At the end there –you've got a comma before an 'and'."

"So?"

"Well, you can't do that. It's against writing rules since, like, the dawn of time."

Nick gaped. "Where did you learn English? Pedantry State? You can't go through life _never_ putting a comma before an 'and'!"

"Survived so far!"

This was an argument he had to win. "Commas give you breath pauses too. And they stop stuff from getting bunched together falsely at the end of a list."

"Can't do it."

Nick shoved the paper under Hank's nose in frustration. "Look! It says 'This statement has been seen and agreed in sequence with the following parties… yada… yada… more parties…yada… _the Captain, and the perps_.' if you take that comma out, you end up with 'the Captain and the perps'! It sounds like a pop band!"

"I'm not sticking around and missing beer while you take the comma out and re-print, ok?"

Nick huffed. "Deal."

"Gentlemen?" The Captain slid up behind them and held his hand out for the buff folder and printout. "Congratulations on closing, today. Not the easiest case. This is the agreed report, right?"

"Almost," Hank muttered, but then nodded.

Renard took the report back to his room, reading on the way, and beckoned them to follow him. Nick watched pensively as his new boss read through it, nodding from time to time, but equally frowning in a few places. He shared a look with Hank, who returned a 'what did I tell you?' nose-wrinkle. Damn, his nose was expressive. Eventually, Renard cleared his throat.

"So… Stanley Moore had a cold relationship with his father, a wintry relationship with his mother. Relations with his girlfriend had become frosty. Things were stormy with his ex, and chilly with his brother. Did this guy have a warm relationship with _anyone_?"

Nick frowned. "Well…no. that's why he's dead."

The Captain suddenly looked very tired. "Ok. A little more florid than I'd like, but on the whole, job well done. Take yourselves off home. Oh – before you go…" he handed Nick a poster. "Stick this up in the men's room, will you?"

"Sure!"

Nick had bounced back to his desk before he'd checked the poster and felt his blood freezing, frosting, chilling, getting all wintry…. It read:

"_I have been polite and patient. The next cop caught by cleaner pissing it up the wall and walking off will get his balls used as paperweights. Renard._

_Ps – same fate goes to whoever owns the IP address sending my posters to 'Passive-Aggressive notes'._

Nick swallowed hard and looked over at Hank. "Uh… balls as paperweights. Is that a euphemism?"

"Probably not."

"Do you think anyone would notice if my computer blew up by accident?"

"Probably."

"Let's go. Now." Nick snatched his jacket off his chair, keen to put space between himself and the Captain's room.

Hank chuckled. "Yeah…damn finally, let's go!"

**X x X**

**June 2012: Baby Grimm**

Nick stood in front of his Captain like a confused schoolboy, having had no time whatsoever to translate what had actually happened in the last 48 hours into a report that he could submit that didn't make him look like a lunatic. Fortunately, his Captain was in a good mood.

"So, Burkhardt. I notice some gaps in this report. The detail is somewhat Spartan. For example, there are plenty of places where I was expecting to see some… typing." Renard held up what looked like an empty template.

"I did say that there was still some information I needed to fill in," Nick mumbled. A Mommy Daemonfeuer had assaulted him while he was trying to prevent accidental arson by a teenage Daemonfeuer, who was in danger of having a sneezing attack at a petrol station. How to explain? He'd put several paragraphs about cultural differences into the background section, kept the circumstances of arrest for the Mommy simple, and hoped he wouldn't ask too many questions.

"Nick," Renard said wearily, "your recent, highly vague report-writing reminds me of something. When I was young, I went to Stonehenge with my family as part of a cultural holiday. We were given informational tapes in recorders so we could walk around all the stones and understood how they got there, and what they meant. The tape was the _worst_ informational tape in the history of educational sites. On top of constant clanking sound-effects and the sound of wind blowing, all we could make out was some soothing narrator saying 'How did they get there? We don't know! Why are they here? We don't know! We may never know!' Useless! And I'm sort of… reliving that whole terrible experience when reading your police reports."

Nick trudged back to his desk with his Z- grade hanging over him like a dark cloud. Hank gave him a sympathetic look.

"Rough talk?"

"Feedback's a bitch."

**April 2013: Grown-up Grimm**

Nick kicked his PC into life and while it booted up, went to clean the mud, pine tree and twigs out of his hair and clothes. Not amused. What he wanted after the war of the randy blutbad was a bath and his bed – in that order. And when he woke starving in the middle of the night, a pizza.

The software opened up and he kept the fascinating tale of the cross-breed fandango in the woods brief. It was the kind of story – minus wesen – he'd have slavered over writing up a year or so ago.

Background: Victim [G Southwood] caught al flagrante with wife of perp [D Rouse]. Furious perp is also sports nut. Assault involved one crossbow, see coroner's report overleaf. Blood matches.

He filled in all the admin fields, trudged into Renard's office and handed over the single sheet of paper.

Renard nodded and handed it back. "Good job Nick, keep it up."

"Thanks." Crap report, Nick's artistic side protested, but he was about to schlepp back to his desk to go home when Renard called him back.

"Really good ass-kicking, by the way, but your cross-bow needs re-stringing…"


	9. Bud's assertiveness training

_**What persuades a nervous wreck like Bud Wurstner to go back to a Grimm's lair to get his toolbox? Maybe a little assertiveness training got him ready for the scary moment….**_

**January 2012**

**Client transcript files: #442/11**

**Name: Bud Wurstner**

**Course: Assertiveness Therapy **

**Transcript Status: for shredding – client cancelled course.**

* * *

**Dr Lang:** good morning Bud, come on in. Take a seat. It's nice to see you again. As usual I'm recording this session for my tutorial files, ok? And as ever, the names of any people you mention will be redacted in the transcripted copy.

**Bud:** uh... Good. Kinda glad about that this week.

**Dr Lang:** you seem a little more... nervous than usual. What's that about?

**Bud:** w-would you mind if I didn't say just yet? I'm n-not feeling brave enough.

**Dr Lang:** we'll go as fast or slow as you like, Bud. Now, last week, we were dealing with you coping with a client of an intimidating wesen variety wogeing at you halfway through a job. We did a little role play, didn't we?

**Bud:** I-I think going straight to Lowen was rushing it a little. I haven't slept well this week.

**Dr Lang:** I don't think that trying out your assertiveness skills on a Maushertz would really have taken you outside your comfort zone, Bud. Now, have you had any particularly intimidating experiences this week?

_[client squeaks incomprehensibly and declines to repeat himself]_

**Dr Lang:** very well, let's go back to where we were last week, but we'll try a situation where a Jagerbar is trying to bully you into a fridge repair discount. Ok? Now, I would like you to meet Barry Rabe, who has kindly agreed to be our role-play partner for the day.

**Bud:** that-that's very kind of you.

**Barry:** it's community service. Don't get all emotional about it.

**Dr Lang:** ok Barry, now we've agreed to a GRADUAL escalation of intimidation in this scenario, so no growling right off the bat, ok?

**Barry:** whatever.

**Dr Lang:** great, so if you take your places in the middle of the room... Good... Go, Barry.

**Barry:** hey, you made a screwball job on my fridge! I ain't paying you!

**Bud:** [clears throat] w-what makes you say the job wasn't done properly?

**Barry:** there's s water all over the floor! It ain't working!

**Bud:** [long pause] Is it turned on?

**Barry**: It's among the first things I thought of!

**Bud: **I-I only ask because I just changed the filter with it unplugged for five minutes. I-I did point out that you needed to t-turn in on again.

**Barry:** You never said that! Why didn't you turn in on for me again? What kind of fridge guy are you? I'm going to sue your ass!

**Bud:** [squeaks, woges]

**Dr Lang:** Oh dear – ok! Stop… stop…

_[mad, panicked panting sounds]_

**Dr Lang:** Barry, you're aiming for a discount. Was it necessary to skip straight to the suing? Ok Bud, just take a moment. Focus on breathing ... That's it.

**Barry:** sorry man, my dad's a lawyer. Force of habit. Let me know when you're good to go.

**Bud:** I'm o-ok.

**Barry:** good man. Right, where was I?

**Bud:** you were threatening to sue my ass.

**Barry:** oh yeah. MAN, I'M GONNA SUE YOUR ASS!

**Bud: **You can't s―

**Dr Lang:** now, remember the actions, feelings, request cycle, Bud!

**Barry:** hold up – he was about to answer me!

**Dr Lang: **He was about to tell you what you could and could not do. What he's supposed to do is to tell you how your suing and shouting made him feel.

**Barry: **How does that help him? If I'm trying to bully something out of him, I don't give a rat's ass how he feels! Go ahead and try it, Bud.

**Bud:** D-don't shout at me. It threatens me when you shout at me and doesn't make me want to do what you ask. I-I would rather you asked me n-nicely to check your fridge again.

**Barry:** [low growl] That _was _asking you nicely. Now I'm asking less nicely….

_[Brief hiatus while client shuts himself in the Cabinet]_

**Dr Lang:** now, Mr Rabe... We're doing _assertiveness training_. Not flooding therapy. Ease off a little.

**Bud: **What's flooding therapy?

**Dr Lang:** finding your worst fear and exposing you to it so that you become 'immune'

**Bud: **[gibbering] I-I think that may have already happened to me this week…

**Barry:** what's the point of assertiveness training in wesen? There's a world order, don't forget. If you're a maushertz, Biber or Seelengut, assertiveness is _not_ going to help you with Jageren, dirkfelligen or Siegbarstes. Hey man, come out from the cabinet! I'm not actually going to eat you, right?

_[long pause]_

**Bud**: Really?

**Barry**: Really! I'm watching my waistline and it looks like you get through way too many pancakes. Now get out here and chew me a second asshole, like you were a Lowen, or something.

**Dr Lang:** Mr Rabe, this _really_ isn't helping.

_[Cabinet door squeaks open]_

**Barry**: You're right. Apart from retrieving your client from inside the furniture, it didn't help at all. Right… as we were… RARRRR!

_[client stress-woges and repeats unintelligible mantra at high speed, with eyes squeezed shut]_

**Dr Lang:** what did you say, Bud? At human hearing pitch?

**Bud:** I-I can do this. I s-served a Grimm and I'm still here. I served a Grimm a-and I'm s-still here. I can do this.

**Dr Lang:** Now, Bud. Let's not leap straight to the scariest end of the spectrum, ok?

**Bud:** But I did service a Grimm's fridge!

**Dr Lang:** I don't think that fantasising worst case scenarios is going to help you with this little fear problem you have, is it?

**Bud:** I'm not imagining it!

**Dr Lang:** There are no Grimms in Portland.

**Bud:** What is it with everyone round here? I told Irv. I told Roscoe... No-one believes me!

**Dr Lang:** Well, you're still here to tell us about this 'Grimm' with a fridge, so you may have to excuse my disbelief...

**Barry:** hey, you met the Grimm? About 5-10, dark hair, disapproving-looking. Unexpectedly pleasant?

**Bud:** I didn't really look at him very closely. He did the eyes at me.

**Barry**: yeah, that's kind of unsettling. What were you thinking about while he was doing it?

**Bud**: Um… um…. Mrs Grimm.

**Barry**: There's a Mrs Grimm?

**Bud**: Oh yeah! She's real nice. Not a morningstar or axe or kanebo anywhere on her person. Doesn't even keep a crossbow tied to her belt. I was just thinking very _slightly_ impure thoughts about how cute she was, then the Grimm showed up and I nearly crapped myself.

**Barry: **What did she look like?

**Bud**: Huh?

**Barry**: Mrs Grimm. You were having slightly impure thoughts…

**Bud: **Oh, well she has this long red hair, this teeny little Disney waist, this almost Julia Roberts smile – loads of teeth

**Barry**: ah, hence the attraction. The Eis like lots of teeth, don't they?

**Bud**: We do not! Anyway. She was damn pretty. I was halfway through mentally gawking when I saw the Grimm.

**Barry:** what did he say?

**Bud:** uh... Uh... Uh... 'Hello', I think. Or it could've been 'hi'. Something really chilling. I don't really remember because like I said, I nearly cra―

**Dr Lang:** Gentlemen! Can we get back to the point? Barry, I think _you_ can go now. He's clearly overcome his fear of Jagerbar. Bud and I are now going to cover Hexenbiests.

**Bud: **Noooooooooooo!

**Barry:** what? How's that going to help the poor guy? Where are you going to get a Hexenbiest from?

_[sounds of disorganised screaming, banging and struggling as both client and role-player try to occupy the same cabinet]_

**Dr Lang:** Barry... you seem to share Bud's fear. Would you like to join in this session?

**Barry** : [muffled through door] Go away!

**Dr Lang:** you're in _my_ cabinet, young man. Or maybe… you could both be a little more courageous, since you've 'apparently' both survived a Grimm?

**Both**: We did!

**Dr Lang**: Of _course _you did! Now come on out and show me how brave you both are.

_[reluctant muffling and shuffling sounds. Role player and client emerge from cabinet]_

**Dr Lang:** that's better. Now, Bud. I will start human, ok?

**Bud:** ok.

**Barry:** who am I in this?

**Bud:** you can be my assistant.

**Barry:** what? No way! I'm going to be the boss!

**Bud:** Ok, so be the boss. I'll just delegate upwards and fetch the manager when she woges.

**Barry:** fine! Fine…. I'll be the assistant. [whispers] see? That's how you stand up for yourself. Good job!

**Bud:** thanks man!

**Dr Lang:** when you're both quite ready?

**Both**: Uh… ready!

**Barry: **Get behind the till, dude.

**Bud**: I'm behind the till, kiddo!

_[short pause and impatient shuffling from therapist as session members apparently get into character.]_

**Dr Lang:** Ok gentlemen, I have just brought three fridges from you.

**Bud:** Great! Thanks!

**Barry**: way to go with the bulk-buy!

**Dr Lang:** I was setting the scene!

**Bud:** Oh. Sorry. Go on.

**Dr Lang:** Still setting the scene…. I have just bought three fridges and given you my card. I am giving you an icy beam. Go.

**Bud: **Oh – hey.. quick question?

**Dr Lang**: [sound of teeth grinding] What?

**Bud**: Do we already know that you're a Hexenbiest?

**Dr Lang**: Does it matter?

**Bud**: Well, yeah, if it's going to be a _useful_ role-play. Cause if I don't know, I'll just be averagely slavish. Whereas if I do know, then I'll react…. differently.

**Dr Lang**: [heavy sigh] Fine. Ok, yes. You're aware that I'm a Hexenbiest

**Bud**: How do I know this?

**Dr Lang**: Because I have come in on previous occasions and brought things in a sinister manner. Ok – from the top, I – a Hexenbiest - am giving you my card…

**Bud: **ADOPT FULKING POSITIONS!

_**[**thump as role-player and client throw themselves suddenly to the floor]_

**Dr Lang:** what are you doing?

**Barry**: Fulking! Hiding behind the counter, you know? It's a standard evasion manoeuvre for anyone serving a Hexenbiest.

**Dr Lang:** surely that only works _before_ I come into the shop? Where's your pride?

**Barry:** there's no pride lost where a hexenbiest is concerned!

**Dr Lang:** for god's sake! I'm about to give you lots of money!

**Bud:** for real?

**Dr Lang:** yes!

_[generalised clambering: client and role-player back on feet]_

**Bud:** oh, right. Ok. May I have your card, ma'am? And I'm really sorry about the fulking.

**Dr Lang:** [forcefully] You will now run my card.

**Bud:** [long pause] sorry... Was that some, standard imperious hexenbiest instruction to which I'm supposed to give an assertive answer, or are you just setting the scene again?

**Dr Lang:** It was a Hexenbiest instruction!

**Bud:** ok, ok, I'm running the card! Putting the card in the machine….. God. My hands are shaking!

**Dr Lang:** [forcefully] you will now decline my card.

**Bud:** why would you ask me to do that? who asks anyone to decline their card?

**Dr Lang:** AGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

_[sounds of glass and mirrors shattering]_

**Barry:** whoa, lady! Anger issues!

**Bud**: and credit balance issues, too! Sorry ma'am, but bank says no.

**Dr Lang:** YOU'RE BOTH COMPLETE FOOLS!

**Barry**: Did anyone ever tell you that screeching, bone-flashes and suddenly-exposed gumlines are really unattractive qualities in a woman?

**Dr Lang:** GET OUT!

**Bud:** you get out. It's my shop!

**Barry:** way to go, biber!

**Dr Lang:** get out of my _office_, you useless beaver!

**Bud:** say lady, you want a Scot's pine dropped on you, you're going the right way about it!

**Dr Lang:** [gasps] are you threatening me with a… tree?

**Bud:** don't even try me! I've got a chainsaw and I know how to use it!

**Barry:** say, I think you're getting the hang of this assertiveness crap, now. Shall we go? Have a beer some place?

**Bud:** yeah! Nutsy lady. Jeez. She can keep her damn fridges.

_[grumbling departures. Voices moving from recorder: transcription imprecise... ]_

**Barry:** did you finish the Grimm's fridge, or will he be after you for defrosting his shit?

**Bud:** I fixed it alright, but left my toolbox there. I'll never see that again.

**Barry:** let's go get it.

**Bud:** I'm not feeling _that_ brave.

**Barry:** You gotta do these things one step at a time. Baby steps. First, go back to the house. Then go back and actually ring the doorbell. I'll come with you and sit in the car, if that would help?

**Bud**: You would? Oh man, thanks! You're good at this psychiatry stuff! But I'm not really sure I want to…

**Barry**: hey you said that Mrs Grimm was real cute… and now you've got an excuse to go back!

**Bud:** true...

**Barry:** how old is she?

**Bud:** uh... Late twenties?

**Barry:** need an assistant...? I think I just screwed my community service arrangement up back there…

_[TRANSCRIPTION TERMINATES]_

* * *

**Coming soon…. The perils of being a young, randy wesen at the time of 'the change….'**


	10. Perilous Pranks of the modern Grimm

**Thanks for the reviews, follows and favourites! Still working on the perils of being a wesen teenager, lol. **

**Until then, more records have emerged from the secret world of Grimm.**

**Monroe needs to know how far the Grimm can be pushed (to set reliable safety boundaries). **

**Nick is curious to see what it would take Monroe (and other wesen species) to woge out of sheer irritation. The following non-violent techniques are taken from updated versions of both their respective Grimm/wesen books, in no particular order of date, dastardliness or one-upmanship.**

* * *

How to test the good character of your friendly modern Grimm (from Monroe's book of Grimm)

1. Remove Morningstar from offensive weapon section of armoury. Detach mace from Morningstar handle and chain. Re-thread handle and chain with donut. Replace inoffensive weapon in armoury.

2. Put guys on a rota to say "why so grim, man?" whenever Nick looks fractionally less than sunny. (Rota is _important_ or someone is going to get thumped/Grimmed.)

3. Replace entire coffee selection with decaffeinated alternatives.

4. Unscrew Grimm's shower head. Put three liquorice sweets into fixture, reattach head. Observe slightly aniseed-y Grimm being pursued relentlessly by dogs and unintelligent Blutbads.

5. Seize Grimm's phone. Set 'new mail' alert to 'fog horn'. Email at dawn.

6. Put chilli flakes in packet of Golden Grahams.

7. Call a truce by assisting Grimm with his public image management. Buy a fully-paid subscription to a bizarre and sociopathic periodical (such as 'Swan Haters' monthly', or 'Gut-Punchers United') and have them delivered to the Lodge. Watch him convince everyone that 'he's not really like that'.

* * *

Testing the extent of the 'wieder' Blutbad principle (Wild Wesen 4 – N Burkhardt)

1. Buy yourself a fully-paid subscription to sinister periodical, such as Clock-Smashers' quarterly, or Wonders of Wolfsbane. Ensure they are visible around the house when Blutbad calls.

2. Leave white pages open to page listing taxidermists. Circle a few. Annotate others with appointment dates.

3. Abduct full tea supply. Leave a ransom note.

4. Swap Portland Pines calendar for 'foxy ladies' calendar just before Rosalee turns up.

5. 'Donate' Blutbad's front yard to local preschool seeking a tidy-and-repaint project. Ensure pre-school is well equipped with every shade of paint.

6. Sprinkle Tabasco sauce on bathroom door handle.

7. Frustrate attempts to mark territory in back yard by stretching Saran Wrap behind all the trees.

* * *

**Against Monroe's sage advice, Nick goes through a brief, unsupervised phase of running his own non-violent tests on other wesen to see if they woge...**

Other techniques for wesen annoyance (taken from Wild Wesen 5 by N. Burkhardt)

_do not attempt any of these stunts unless you have a clear and unobstructed route from the building and a very fast car._

**Lowen: **

1. Leave a face-height smear on every reflective surface in the house.

2. Borrow their Nintendo Wii and play using their Mii. Ruin their highest scores. Re-set their height and weight information for all the games dependent on the Wii board. Change appearance of Mii from sex-god to walking walnut (or as close as you can manage to this).

3. Set their mobile alarm to play 'the lion sleeps tonight' at 130 decibels at 2am.

**Stangebar**: fix them job as waiter with an agency, then send them to a hexenbiest party. Stangebars are well designed to walk around with cheese and pineapple cubes stuck to them.

**Jagerbar**: tell every criminal blonde in Portland where they can find a warm bed, comfy seat and a good meal.

**Siegbarste**: Send their contact details to a Medical Diagnostics Training School. Tell students that Siegbarste is happy to be x-rayed at home at any time.

**Dirkfellig**: talk them into helping out at local kindergarten school fair. Get them to sit down while small people through hoops over their horn.

_**Wild Wesen 5 discontinues here: cross-reference with the Wesen Wellness Centre ER file suggests that Grimm has spent a period of time in hospital and has been unable to experiment further with other wesen annoyance techniques.**_


	11. Trench Coat Training by Sean Renard

**In 2012, Rosalee and Monroe raised over $75,000 to build up the tea and spice shop to build a wesen wellness centre by having a 'Give a Grimm a Hug' event…**

**In 2013, with a larger clientele, they need a bigger event, planning to raise at least $100,000. Bring in Renard as the male choreographer, and the boyz as male models for Fundraiser 2! **

**Thanks all very much for lovely reviews for previous chapters! Hope you continue to enjoy silliness…**

**X x X**

Renard hung his coat up on the peg backstage and perused the fundraiser programme with interest. Rosalee had produced it, he was told, and she'd done a truly professional job, separating out each part of the catwalk show into sections of clothing type, designer and price range. Womenswear. Swimwear (women's). Deadly weapons. Menswear. No male swimwear, thank God. But then his name loomed out at him from the programme in the menswear section, under 'choreographer'. He gaped. The gape gave way to a gasp. He'd agreed to provide a start-up to cover the cost of this event, not get involved in any great…. _Choreographer? _The gasp would have turned into a coughing fit, had it not been for the sudden appearance of Rosalee, beaming expectantly at him through the gloom of the theatre.

"Choreographer? Miss Calvert, I do not recall agreeing to that."

"That's because you weren't listening," she said airily. "Your models are backstage, with the samples. You guys have got two hours to rehearse before the set-up guys come to decorate the stage."

"Models?"

"Well – men, at least. They needed a little blackmail encouragement – like you - but they seem to have relaxed into things, now. I'm sure you'll whip them into shape quick enough. It's only five garments each and six models, so you'll be fine. Just be… purposeful."

Renard gesticulated at the programme, reigning in his panic. "I can't help but notice that one of your menswear designers is Burberry – which invariably means 'Trench Coat'. How the hell am I supposed to teach non-models how to posture properly in a trench coat in two hours? Let alone swoosh in one?"

"_What_ in one?"

"Swoosh!" Did she not understand trench coats? There was an indefinable art to wearing one properly, let alone move safely in one, let alone make one _look_ good.

"It's a coat! Get a grip! Your models, and their clothes, are through there…"

Renard pushed through to the staging area and straight into a world of despair as his took in his models' names penned on a board behind the catwalk. His brain played a Psycho-like screeching chord of dread with each name seen. Nick, Hank, Monroe, Barry Rabe, Bud Wurstner, and Jan – his new Lowen Lieutenant.

He squeezed his eyes closed. He might be able to pull together something convincingly professional from Nick, Hank, Barry and Jan – provided that sample clothes had been provided for his broad 6-foot-10 frame. Monroe was in decent shape, but owned the rare and inimitable ability to make even a tux look scruffy the moment he slipped himself into it. The less said about Bud Wurstner, the better. Renard could only hope that the guy turned out to have some miraculous, undiscovered sense of rhythm.

His models were nowhere to be seen. Disturbingly, he spotted a nearly-empty bottle of Grant's whiskey on a side table, and in stepping towards it, heard giggling.

In the changing room, Nick and Hank were dressed and ready to rehearse in sharp suits and their trench coats, but ruined the smooth effect that their sartorial splendour should have had by rubbing balloons over Barry Rabe's clothes to fill them with static. Barry was busy trying to help Bud into his suit, and Jan – upon whom Renard was now heavily relying to hold up the elegance end of things - was struggling to get into his trench, which was two inches too narrow across the shoulders, and which appeared to have ¾ length sleeves. Monroe was nowhere to be seen.

Renard dipped his face into his hands, envisaging his credibility as a semi-professional wearer of trench coats washing down the Columbian River into the ocean for the rest of time if anyone associated this riotous assembly with his name as a choreographer. He gritted his teeth. No way. He clapped his hands loudly and pointed at the stage. "If you're not all out there in one minute, I'll appear in your bedrooms like mist and woge at you in the middle of the night."

As they stampeded towards the stage with a satisfying scuffle, he headed back to his coat peg to claim his own impeccable garment and joined them on the stage. The stage was a narrow-topped T – about 30 feet long, but 10 or so across the top, where it led to the changing area on either side.

"Right, line up. Shoulders back." Renard regarded the unpromising line before him with distrust. Unusually, he found himself sweating. The six 'models' looked stern and grave, but he knew Burkhardt and Griffin well enough to spot mischief brewing in their eyes, if not in their mouths. Beneath their trenches, they all wore charcoal suits, silver-grey ties and pale blue shirts, standing with feet a foot and a half apart, one hand deep in a trouser pocket, the other clamping a mobile against their ear. Not that they were mocking him in any way, of course.

"PHONES AWAY!"

"You will leave your coats unbelted, ungathered, and undone. The front seams of Raglan sleeves are to be worn directly across the line of the shoulder socket from collar to armpit. These coats are double-breasted samples. Nonetheless, they should be hanging in such a way that at least 3-5 inches of suit are visible at the opening of the coat. The hem should finish three inches below the knee."

Nick and Hank bent forward slightly to smirk at Jan's coat, which 'finished' more like a skimpy toga than a garment of suavity. Renard glared at them and they snapped back into line. He marched down like a drill sergeant, inspecting for fit, obedience and comportment, nudging and edging so that their feet were close to the back of the stage. As he passed Monroe, the beastly Blutbad whipped his coat open and flashed twenty cheap Rolexes at him like a dirty old horologist. Bud and Jan smirked, but Barry, Hank and Nick nearly dissolved giggling at the far left of the stage. Renard glared stonily at them. Well, _that_ needed avenging.

"Firstly, we will work on stance. With both hands in your pockets, you need to counteract the forward weight of the coat by tipping your shoulders back by about fifteen degrees."

Bud's forward weight and Jan's height stabilised them against this lean while Nick, Monroe, Hank and Barry dropped backwards off the stage like felled trees and crashed onto the floor with a selection of startled, disorganised yells. He waited for a row of camel-clad arms and bewildered, pained expressions to appear above stage again before drumming his fingers thoughtfully against his lips.

"… or is that five degrees? Oh, yes! Apologies, gentlemen! Trench coat wearers _under_ 6 foot three-should lean back at about five degrees to maintain optimum balance. I hope none of you are …. hurt."

Jan and Bud helped them back up onto the catwalk and he smiled thinly through the cacophony of groans.

"You will do one trip up the catwalk, in pairs, turn, and return to your current spots before splitting and exiting half left and half right off the stage. Approach on the left, and return on the right. Now remember, you must swoosh."

Nick frowned doubtfully. "Swoosh?"

"You must move as smoothly as if you are on a pair of rollerblades that no one can see, and in front of a fan which blows your coat backwards, away from your legs. You cannot allow any friction to take place between the front halves of the coat, or the tails will tuck inwards and sabotage you."

The 'models' looked doubtfully at one another. Sighing heavily, Renard stuck his hands in his pockets and marched up and down the catwalk, demonstrating.

"Like so. See? Right… I'll go to the audience area and offer observations."

Renard leapt down and trotted to the front row, stretching his legs out. "Go!"

Nick and Hank strode to stage front, struck forbidding postures, turned sternly, and then Nick accidentally swept left against traffic and tipped Hank offstage.

"Jesus… NICK! Return on the _right_, remember?"

Jan was once again applied as the rescue rope, hauling Hank back on stage, but Renard changed his tactics.

"No pairs. Pairs are going to be carnage. Fine – let's do a single file with a six-second gap, Jan leading."

Despite Jan's stupidly undersized coat, Renard hoped that his Lieutenant's natural feline grace would allow him to work the suit underneath it and distract the audience from the nightmare of Bud (Columbo in the making) and Monroe (frizzy-bearded and lumpy with watches). They lined up again, Nick bringing up the rear, this time, and Jan strode forward and made it to the front of the stage before his coat tails abruptly slunk inwards and upwards with a jerk and tipped him groin-first over the corner of the stage. Renard slid him slowly sideways off the catwalk and into retirement, curled up into a ball on the theatre floor while he got his breath back. It was unlikely that any of the rest of his 'sample' gear would fit any better anyway.

Second round – Barry led, strode – did well. All five guys made it to the front of the stage and turned menacingly on their respective heels before swivelling and making the return swoosh for hteir costume change. Renard tapped his foot to the beat and made them do it again.

"Good! Very good. Now – _double-time_!"

Barry came back to the front, did his turn, marched back, struggling to keep his coat out of his way, even with his hands in his pockets. He did well. They all did well, until Bud trod on the hanging trail of Monroe's belt, sending off a forward domino plummet….

* * *

_Ten minutes later…._

Renard flushed slightly as Rosalee gave him the look of triplicate death.

"Ok buster, you can take Jan's place. And Hank's place. And… you ok, Barry?"

"Unnh. Oowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. Yeah. Ish."

Rosalee glared at Renard as she held a pack of frozen peas to Nick's head. "You good to go, honey?"

"NNnnh."

"And Nick's place!"

"Nah… 'm alright. Can we practice the less dangerous parts? Like the jeans and tight, long-sleeved v-necked tees?"

Renard could feel Rosalee's glare without looking. "Ok. Where's Barry's kit?"

She pointed with silent venom in the general direction of Barry's hangers, and he stripped his coat, suit and shirt off, reaching for the tee. It was a little tight, and he had to hop up and down to get his elbows through the shoulders and down the sleeves, forgetting completely about the static. It was only when his hair rose like the forcefield round a van-de-graaf generator that he remembered the balloon stunt and tried to take the top off again, struggling a second time to get it over his shoulders. He got the back of his shirt over the top of his head, but couldn't get it any further than that, and found his arms dangling uselessly in front of him like ill-aimed hoses as he staggered blindly back to the changing rooms for help. Jan, partly recovered, managed to pull the top off him by applying the kind of force he usually applied to the doors of burning vehicles.

Not dangerous? How the fuck did Nick get in and out of one of these every day without killing himself? No wonder the guy could handle life as a Grimm.

They moved onto the juggling display wearing toolbelt and weapon combination webbing, inspired by Hank and Bud…

* * *

_3 hours later…. _

_Boys hit catwalk…_

_Agreed apparel… health and safety gear (boxers **only**…)_

_Funds raised for Wesen wellness centre….$145,752.03c_


	12. The perils of Grimm fanmail

**Over time, the proportion of the wesen population of Portland adoring our fair Grimm has grown, but sadly, their collective artistic prowess has not. After an unfortunate incident one Monday morning, during which Nick read his post over breakfast and suffered a mild choking attack, his friends have kindly taken to sifting his post for him to remove the more alarming items. **

**What lies beneath is an accurate description of joys and pains involved in this kind of brotherly love. Or not, as the case, may be…**

**X x X**

"Ok, so you'll be here in ten? Dude, I'm grateful. I don't have the stomach for going through the guy-mail right now. Fine, bye!"

Rosalee gave Monroe a disapproving, sideways look. "Just because Denny's gay, it doesn't mean that _he _has the stomach for going through the guy mail either! Have you even told him what's in the slash pile?"

"Course! He's bringing the old kitchen tongs for the boxers."

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes Monroe missed the point so magnificently. "Hank coming too?"

"Yep, he's handling the terrible poetry. Which leaves us with the arts and crafts." He nudged her cheerfully, holding up craftwork. "Ok… this one's not bad. Pretty harmless. This goes in the 'cute' pile."

Rosalee peered at the morningstar lovingly rendered in woolly cross-stitch. "It's pink," she observed.

"Aww, and she stitched her name into it! Kayleigh, aged 7. Not bad for seven. When she gets really good, she'll be doing fifth-series Graaten Crossbows. Hang it in Nick's armoury?"

Rosalee smiled. "Sure. Ok… next. Oh – uh… this is kind of borderline." She unfolded a painted tapestry telling a story from left to right. Hasslich hits tiny Eisbiber's daddy (presumably) on the head. Tiny Eisbiber goes and tells the Grimm (wearing a 'G' tee-shirt and holding a club). Big Grimm hits Hasslich on the head (with blood spray), on the butt (less spray), and between the legs (thank god, no spray). Tiny Eisbiber holds hands with Big Grimm, looking exceptionally pleased with her/himself. Adoring, she admitted, but a little… bloodthirsty.

"Put that in the almost-cute pile."

She grimaced. "We have an 'almost cute' pile?"

Monroe bounced his eyebrows proudly, did a drumroll on the desk and whipped a curtain off the new filing system – a great big rack with labelled, plastic pull-out draws. Rosalee wept internally. She loved Monroe so _much _but nothing could be done simply. There seemed to be a lot of sub-categories. A _lot_ of draws. Cute. Almost cute. Ok. Rude/complaint. Underwear. Dodgy. Perverse. Burn.

She looked around disbelievingly. "Wow, you've put…. effort into this." And just a touch of mania, too.

"If you're gonna do a thing.. do it properly!"

"Hmmmm." Rosalee divided Nick's post into three, having kept the guy post to one side for Denny, who burst in with an unnecessary boot to a perfectly functioning door with a perfectly functioning handle. Hank followed, kindly rehanging the door for them.

"Morning all!"

"Hey guys."

Monroe beamed at them. "Make yourself comfortable, grab coffee…"

Hank and the Siegbarste settled themselves down at the second desk, boots up, cups in hand and took the pile of stuff handed over to them. Denny reached for his gingerly.

"These are… yours," Monroe muttered, handing him the guy-pile. "And Hank… here's the terrible poetry."

"Wait wait wait… I tossed two good hours of sleep time on a Saturday in the garbage to read… terrible poetry?" Hank looked aghast. "Why can't I read the good poetry?"

"Good luck finding some," Rosalee murmured.

They all got reading, the silence occasionally punctuated by yet another pair of boxers or frillies being rustled out of an envelope and catapulted into the underwear bin. There was much coffee drinking, flinching, emptying of the 'burn' draw and eventually a list drawn up on the whiteboard, headed '_contrived rhymes for Grimm'._

**X x X**

"Oh man," Hank said eventually, feeling his stomach turn. "There must be _some_ kind of wesen poetry class in Portland, surely? Someone out there brave enough to tell Hundjagers that poems don't need to involve this much… information."

"Is it clean?" Rosalee demanded.

"Uh… yeah… but…"

"So put it in 'ok'."

"Well, it's _not_ ok." Hank pulled a face. "I mean… this is almost bunny-boiler territory. It's called 'reflections of a rejected Hundjager'."

"Nick rejected a Hundjager? Really? I'm shocked!" Monroe grinned and waded through his kindergarten arts and crafts pile, infuriatingly sifting everything into 'cute'.

Hank felt that the pain had to be spread more evenly, and cleared his throat. "_I'm hardly expecting you to remember the stairs you flung me down last September_."

"Oh, the scansion! Painful!" Denny interjected.

"Gets worse, man. '_Cause I'm not a Hund to bear a grudge, I've tried to forget you and your face won't budge._'"

"Dude, that makes no sense. If this Hund bears no grudge, why the attempt to forget what he looks like? Because Hundjagers, right, they have a picture of their prey tattooed on their inner eyelids―"

"Honey? Unable to forget Nick's face because it's cute, even though it's kind of bad form for a hundjager to have a crush on a grimm and all that?"

"Oh….yeah. Point."

Hank cleared his throat to go on. "Though I tried to tear you limb from limb, you simply concussed me, Gorgeous Grimm."

"Burn it!" Rosalee insisted. "God, the syllable pattern alone puts that one in the 'burn' pile."

Hank considered. "Now, see, I remember this case, even if Nick doesn't. And the reason that Nick might not is because it was _he_ that got thrown down the stairs, not this hairy broad."

"Was this broad called Brian?" Denny asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Uh… no."

"Ok – wrong case and, that one should be on my pile. Unless he was 'Bridget' during the week, or something." Denny read the next two lines and took a sharp air intake. "Ok! Burn! Burn!"

"Awwww… I like this one," Monroe chuckled, and Hank glared at him darkly. He had all the kiddie stuff. The nice stuff.

"So tell us."

Monroe cleared his throat and read.

_Oh lovely grimm, I like you cuz you give nice hugs sometimes,_

_And talk silly when you're feeling grim;_

_My big sis thinks you have nice eyes, that are the same color as my pet rat*, and she has a crush on you_

_Your eyes kind of scare me, but I still like being friends with you._

Minnie McKinna, 7

* my pet rat is silver and grey and has a naughty streak

Hank smirked. "Do Nick's eyes have a naughty streak?"

"That one's 'almost-cute', on account of the likeness to the rat," Rosalee concluded. "Next! Come on guys, there's a lot to get through. You can't sit there discussing this stuff."

Hank shrugged. They were getting paid by the hour, after all. A few breaks for snarks was no skin off his nose. "Whatever. Ok…. Oh! This one's nasty. They're after his blood."

"Complaint pile?" Monroe asked.

"Uh no. Portland Blood bank. They're quite literally after his blood. Dated… May last year. Nick's been evading them. Do we have an ignored post pile?"

"Bank statement," Denny reported, chucking a Bank of America envelope on the desk. "definitely one for the 'ignored post' pile… OH MY GOD! Do we have a 'perverse' pile?"

Hank looked over. "What you got?"

"Awful, nightmare-inducing rhymes involving Grimm, rim, brim and…. Gym! I feel completely ill!"

Hank took the poem out of Denny's hand, clapped him on the shoulder and crumpled and binned it. "Breathe deep. Breaaaaathe…. Just think of the moolah."

"Moooolah…" Denny repeated.

"Focus on the dough," Hank soothed. "Be at one with the dough." No one needed an appalled Siegbarste in the office.

"Moneeeey…." Denny intoned, fingers together, feet touching. Woge evaded.

Monroe leant forward and waved an awkward hand. "You know this is… voluntary work, right? I did… kinda mention it."

Hank glowered. As did Denny. "No. we'd have remembered a phrase like 'terrible poetry for no pay'. I'm sure we would've done. You saying this slavery is actually… slavery?"

"Hey man, it's what friends do for one another?"

"Uh, No!" Hank disagreed. "There are pack rules, which we all abide by. We will drop each other home and safe when drunk. We will not allow each other to date evil women – or men - who look like dump trucks. We will prevent each other from getting slam-dunked by pool-cues in the non-sockets, but we will _NOT _read horrible poetry for each other for hours for no pay! No! not done!"

Monroe cleared his throat. "I don't think Nick actually has the funds to sponsor a paid sift of his wesen fanmail, not that he offered. Hence me telling him that we would do it for him. As buddies, you know?"

"Did you?" Denny said dangerously. "Right. Let's borrow your iPad."

Hank and Denny settled over the screen for half an hour, hammering away until they finally sent the following to Nick…..

_It seems that we have borne the brunt_

_Of you eating breakfast all back to front_

_Get some balls and get some spine_

_Why should your mail-sifting duties be mine?_

_Hours of poetry and we're unamused_

_To find our patience thus abused:_

_Having been exposed to a perversity spree_

_We found we were working without a fee._

_Way too many poems to even bloody skim_

_About boxer-clad Grimms hanging in gyms._

_And all those old ladies getting their kicks _

_From the 'vigour and vim' of feisty Nicks._

_The lack of pay is truly shocking_

_(Your fraudulent Blutbad needs a socking)_

_Our brotherly love swiftly went sour_

_(we're thinking twenty bucks an hour)_

_There's a limit to love, let's be clear_

_(alternatively, great big crates of beer)_

_Paying your mates is NOT A WHIM –_

_Show us the money, you stingy Grimm!_

X x X

**With thanks to Nahaliel for supplying the verse of Minnie, lolol!**


	13. Hard labour

**_Some more silliness…. I hope you enjoy! Thanks so much for all the reviews, favourites and follows. I really do appreciate them and it really makes me happy that this silly one-shot series is fun for other people as well as me! Thanks so much too, to the guests who I can't thank for kind comments on PM._**

**X x X**

**October 2013**

**Certain gentlemen at Portland PD (and a certain interfering clock-making civilian) are in deep Mayoral doo-doo after a highly necessary but fairly destructive carchase resulted in the damage of numerous public properties. Since this damage was all carried out in the best interests and name of the law, few officer-punishments are available. However, free, hard labour is still an option.**

**Hence certain gentlemen find themselves have found themselves sentenced to clearing a copse of trees in Haverzake forest, where a local charity plans to build a writers' retreat for the creative elderly folk of Portland.**

"Rosalee went to a writer's retreat once," Monroe offered as they stomped through the woods. "Said it was a _total_ waste of time."

Nick was vaguely jealous. He'd always fancied doing one of those. "What was wrong with the retreat?"

"She got nothing done. There were some useful workshops in the morning, which were pretty cool, but all afternoon she was bugged by writers who hadn't been inspired yet and who were wandering around distracting those who had."

Nick grinned. "There's a quick way to earn the Rosalee Glare Of Doom. Did she get anything done?"

"No. She had to retreat home to get some peace and quiet before she started hitting writers whose muses hadn't struck yet."

Hank chuckled on the other side. "I can just see her doing that. 'Say, your muse struck you yet? No?' SMACK! 'There you go, just in case your muse doesn't show up..."

"I could do with being hit by the muse to get my wesen-notes updated," Nick muttered. "I've got terrible writer's block." He was suddenly aware of being caught in a pincer movement of disparaging expressions. "What?"

"You've got writer's block? Man, you're just writing annotations. Just act like it's a police report, or something."

Monroe muttered agreement. "And actually, you could just start with re-writing some of the bullcrap your ancestors wrote. Or at least make some of the stories less M-rated."

Nick grumbled on behalf of the ancestors. "Which ones in particular?"

"How about the entry for those poor tortoise guys?" Hank offered.

"Genio Innocuo?"

"Yeah man, that entry was sick. 'These creatures are sweet, unwary and friendly. They also taste good on toast.'"

"It did _not _say that!"

"Probably wasn't far off it though, huh?" Monroe murmured. "Start small with the memoires, Nick - correct some common misconceptions first, then move to the Shakespearean version of the three billy goats gruff."

Feeling properly disparaged, Nick stomped ahead a little, map in hand, but Hank and Monroe's leg length brought them back into stride with embarrassing ease. It was Monroe, loather of silences, that started up the conversation again.

"So, which particular driving crimes are we all being punished for here? Cause I kind of got sucked into this whole thing very much against my will. As usual."

"I massacred three years' worth of tulips." Nick thought was a better deal than 800 combined years' worth of pensioners. They were listening to big band music live in the park when the perp tore through. What about you guys?"

"Corner of a greenhouse," Hank muttered.

"Rest of the greenhouse," Monroe muttered, "but in fairness, Hank was pretty thorough with his corner. He'd severely compromised the structure by the time I'd swung round. Literally."

Nick scratched his head. "I still don't understand how you got caught up in that chase."

"I had no frickin' _intention_ of getting caught up in that chase! Certain people," Monroe glared firmly at Hank, "were giving me a tow when the APB went over the radio and _certain people_ forgot that they had a VW attached to their ass when they sped up to 80."

Nick let the bickering continue in the background and compared his map to the route they were walking. Apparently this 'clearing' was two miles in on the Briar path, and they'd been walking forty minutes, so they should've come across it by now….

"GUYS! OVER HERE!"

Nick squinted through the lower treeline and saw Wu leaping up and down and waving like a caffeinated semaphore operator in the distance. He led the way through and stared indignantly at Renard's car. "You drove," he accused. "We hiked."

"Ah well… there's the distinction, you see. That car chase was not _at all_ my fault, and barely Renard's fault, whereas all the damage was very much the fault of you, Hank, Lieutenant Vergeer, and Mr Monroe, here."

"Where's Jan?" Nick demanded.

"Oh, he just tore down a bunch of bunting, which he put up again immediately afterwards, with a million smooth apologies. So of course he's their favourite cop right now."

"Goodie two-shoes," Hank muttered. "I hope they make him eat Dundee cake for the rest of time. Ok Wu, If it wasn't _at all_ your fault," Hank growled, "why you here?"

"I'm on smug duty," Wu said and walked back to Renard's car, beaming. "Ok, welcome to the clearing. I will get out your ropes, axes, winches, bill-hooks and chainsaws…"

Monroe's frown matched Nick's almost precisely as they looked around for a gap between the trees of more than eight feet. "What clearing?"

"The one we're making!"

Nick rustled his map in irritation. Clearly it had been futuristically drawn up. "Wu! It's only a clearing when it's … well… cleared!"

"Very good, Nick," Monroe commended. "You're learning your trees."

"Quiet, you."

"So what do you call it now?"

"Right now, it's a… copse."

Wu shrugged. "So it's a copse full of cops who need to stop bitching about clearings and clear it. Right, I have instructions from Renard―"

Nick looked around irritably. "Where is Renard?"

"He's in the car. Ok… let me consult instructions and list… twelve trees to come down to create adequate room for construction of log cabin. Hank, you're in charge of the hydraulic crane. Once the trees are down, we cut them into two metre logs, dump them on the trailer and move them out of the clearing."

"Suits me, man."

"Out of you guys, who's the best at math?"

"Me," Monroe cut in.

Nick shrugged. Whatever. "And me?"

"You strip."

"WHAT?"

Wu handed him the bill hook and axe. "Strip the branches off the fallen trees. No one needs a re-enactment of the naked lumberjack. Fool." He handed Nick the axe. "Wait just a horrible, long sinister second… why do you look so _natural_ holding that axe?"

Nick tied his black-and-red check shirt round his waist over his white tank and shrugged innocently. Tools were handed out, the first tree picked, and they got working…

**X x X**

"I'm not arguing with your math!" Nick spluttered for the ninth time, pulling on his winch so the tree would fall the right way. They had a 30-degree wedge cut into the trunk on either side and had taken away the wedges, but it wasn't budging an inch. "It's just not about math, is it? It's also gravity. This branch―" he pointed to the thigh-fat monster over his head, "is the heaviest part of the tree, so it's gonna fall where the branch is, which is right on Renard's car!"

"It will not! I used pythagoras' theorem. The tree will _not _fall on the car. In fact, the tree will not fall _near_ the car – it's not tall enough. In any case, the tensile strength on _this_ winch will tilt the tree back on its axis, and tip it fifteen feet into the glade, past―" Monroe cut himself off and squinted into the glade. "Is Renard sitting in a deckchair?"

Nick followed his gaze and gaped. "He is! And he's… smirking!"

Hank leant over quietly. "I totally distrust that smirk. It's unnatural."

Nick waved Wu over. He sauntered non-urgently, as ever, and stuck his hands on his hips. Nick hissed in his ear. "Is Renard smirking? Or are we having some kind of weird, shared mushroom-spore-inspired hallucination?"

"No, I think he's just smiling."

Hank's expression darkened. "I trust that even less. Why's he smiling?"

"He likes to watch people hard at work. He finds it very restful."

Nick folded his arms. "Wouldn't he find it restful coming and helping?"

"Oh no. I doubt it. He's come as a spectator, otherwise he'd have just shirked from home today. Oh, hey. Is that supposed to be leaning like that?"

Nick looked up in alarm and saw the Hemlock tilt at the same time as they heard a crack, then a loud, threatening rustle, then the foot of the tree jerked away from the wedges and it was falling, first in slow motion, then in an inevitable and horrible arc towards the glade. Nick just remembered to yell a warning before sprinting to safety. "RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!"

He, Hank, Monroe and Wu managed to get behind the tree in four different directions before the thump of Hemlock hitting the ground, and when the rustling stopped, they all stood slowly from their crouches to see where the tree had dropped, exactly. Nick swallowed. Monroe had been right, actually, about the direction of fall. It was nowhere near the car. It was almost precisely on top of the deckchair, the contents of which had disappeared underneath a bunch of peacefully shivering foliage, rustling in the breeze. As a quartet, they nervously approached the legs sticking out from under the greenery. The feet stuck up perpendicular to the shins, and they seemed to bristle with indignation, despite the silence belonging to the rest of the legs. The lack of height in the deckchair was a bad, bad sign.

Monroe swallowed. "Oh man. Is it … my imagination, or do those legs look annoyed to you?"

"Those legs," Wu agreed, "look… all manners of mad. All at the same time."

Hank bustled over and grabbed a branch. "Uh… a little help, guys?"

Nick hastily trotted over and stood on the other side of Hank, heaving one of the upper branches off. Ok, so Monroe was exactly right about the angle of fall. Shame about his calculations on the height of the tree. "Uh… Sir? You alright?"

" .Out."

Nick and Hank fought over trying to grab the same section of branch, then hauled, shifting it awkwardly towards Hank until the Captain was freed and rose leafy and incandescent from the fallen treetops. Nick beamed up at him winsomely and got a clip round the ear.

"The correct term, Burkhardt, is 'TIMBER'."

Nick rubbed his head irritably, feeling that 'run away' did pretty much the same job. But still, the Captain appeared to be gliding purposefully and moss-infested towards Monroe, who was using his legs to back up a little. Quickly.

"Were you in charge of the math?"

"Well, it was a duty I shared fairly with Nick and Hank, not wanting to steal all the fun parts for myself, so no. No. No, no no no… ok, OK! Yeah."

"You're fired."

Nick grinned as Monroe gaped up at him. "You can't fire me!"

"You're right, I can't." Renard bent down for one of Nick's abandoned stripping tools. "But I can axe you."

"Alright, alright! No more dodgy math!"

"Good." Renard muttered, then turned and raised his voice at them, stripping off his jacket to show a shirt even more wildly lumber-jackish than Nick's. "Let's get on with clearing these logs! Eleven to go! Before it gets dark!"

Wu gave a mock-fangirly sigh. "I love a man whose voice has timbre."

Nick rolled his eyes, disengaged the winch ropes from the fallen tree, and they started all over again….

**X x X**

6 hours, 200 splinters and an unwelcome hike later….

"Unnnnh."

"Nick? You alright?"

"Can't move my arrrrrms." He ached everywhere from being kicked across the glade for killing Renard's car, then dangling in a tree for safety for half an hour. Renard was _so _patient when he wanted to be. He tried lifting his beer, but couldn't. "Hank… help!"

"Sure, man." Hank drank his beer for him, which is not really what Nick had in mind. Hoisting him upright and lifting the glass would've been more the bromantically friendly action under the circumstances. But oh.. no, Hank didn't do Bromance. Or sympathy. Or saving of radically endangered Grimms. "You know, the tree wasn't your fault. It would've been just fine if he hadn't chosen to re-park it somewhere safer."

"That's what I said."

"Foolishly," Wu added. "Still… it's insured. And they've used up their hard labour torture opportunity, so we're done, for now. Until Renard's revenge."

Nick pulled his head off the bar table. "You know what that's gonna be?"

Wu grinned. "I have an inkling."

"Keep your inkling to yourself," Hank muttered. "I wanna be able to sleep tonight."

"All this is for the old folks," Wu explained. "Who now have to wait just that little bit longer for their log cabin to be built. So… they're sticking to painting, for now, in the safety of their home. The one you guys wrecked with the cars… remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, Wu," Monroe muttered. "So what's the punishment?"

"Modelling, probably."

The three of them looked appalled.

"Yeah! It's a female-only establishment. They need models, and they have a thing for half-dressed wood-cutters."

As a man, they hopped off their barstools and grabbed their jackets back on. "Only three trees left, huh? I reckon we can do those by two in the morning…"


	14. Perils of Wesen Puberty

_**ok - more silliness! Thanks to shadewatcher for putting this idea in my head weeks back... and thanks all for all the reviews, PMs and encouragement! It means a lot and it's fun working with the ideas!**_

* * *

**Being wesen is not ****_all joy._**** In fact, there is many an embarrassing problem associated with having your basic form change at a moment's notice. It does not always matter that the woge goes unobserved by your average human. The simple fact is… wogeing can be a pain in the a**e, whatever your species.**

**In illustration of this point, let's take a walk back through time through the less cheerful experiences of some familiar members of the Portland community…**

* * *

**1984**

**Bud Wurstner… (aged 19)**

Bud couldn't keep up with his own breathing. Janie. In his room. Janie in his room, wearing very, very few clothes! His friend, his lovely, beautiful sweet friend who'd never shown any more interest in showing anything more than a homeroom textbook with him... suddenly doing the dance of the seven tails on his quilt. God! His face felt itchy as he hunted down a condom and he rubbed his face out of a woge. The whiskers retracted, somewhat unwillingly. Where the hell were they? He threw six old sweaters and a box of unsent love letters out of the bottom drawer. Nothing there.

"What'd I do with 'em?"

He tried to remember where else he stowed stuff that he thought he never had a chance of using, like his room-mate's champion pool cue and his US passport (with six months left to run), then it clicked. He bolted over to the laundry side-cupboard in his dorm room and fished out his second-best sponge-bag. A quick desperate rummage revealed… a Trojan. He could've laughed for joy. He clamped the foil packet between his teeth and ran back into the bedroom, disrobing as he went, shedding pants, then shirt, then teeshirt and beamed down at a delighted Janie, who was under the sheets, looking pink and glowing and…

He woged out of sheer shock of happiness… before he realised his teeth had gone right through the condom. Foil, rubber and all. Janie looked at him. He looked at Janie. And flopped on the edge of the bed, dejected. He was aware that a generous amount of ass was still on display out the top of his boxers but he was too depressed to even care.

"Oh honey. Did you just have the one?"

He nodded sadly. Well, yeah. He wasn't in the business of stocking up 'just in case'. His sideways attack smooch had come as much of a surprise to him as it had to her, and once she'd stopped flailing wildly with her arms and got herself pushed back up off the gear stick, she told him she liked him too. 'Like that'. So for one blissful half hour, they'd crossed the friendship line. And now what did he have? An embarrassment woge and a hugely punctured rubber.

"Sweetie, there's other stuff we can do. Come and have a cuddle."

"Ok." He snuggled up, still a little sad.

"Anyway, we've done the hard part, huh?"

Not as far as Bud was concerned, they hadn't. Well, ok, they'd had 'the conversation', but the hard part was still very much going on for him. It was the soft part at the end he'd been really looking forward to.

"Uh… I guess so. Uh… Janie, where're you going? Janie? Cuddling happens up here, by the pillo- WOAH! WOW! WOAH! YI YI YI YI YI!"

Nine and a half minutes later….

"You … ok, sweetie?"

"Yip!"

"Really? Cause you sound a little … indistinct."

"Yep blep." He was having a little difficulty talking around the coathanger jammed in his mouth. He was furry with happiness and could still taste foil but didn't even care. She was right. They'd done the hard part. He gazed sideways and nearly poked his eye out on her whisker as she settled into a doze next to him. Who'd have thought it? Another Eisbiber. No wonder she was so forward, once that first move had been made. Girls of the log like to snog, as his father once said. Too damn true.

* * *

**1988**

**Rosalee Calvert…. (aged 15)**

"The ga-la," Mariette repeated, like she was an idiot. "The swimming gala tonight, remember? You were picked for backstroke team?"

Rosalee smiled thinly at the phone, not remembering in the slightest. Mariette was a friend, of sorts, in that she didn't chase her across the hockey field trying to brain her with a stick for missing her pass. Nonetheless, her voice had a strange, nasal somnambulistic quality about it that made any conversations with her nigh-on impossible to remember. Even if it concerned vital information, like her being picked for the swim team. "Uh… oh yeah. When does it start?"

"Sev-en! Rosie! We talked about this be_fore_! I'll pick you up with Betty and we'll drive down to the sports centre…"

"What time's pick-up?" Rosie asked quickly, before Mariette went into detail and sent her back into her usual waking coma.

"Six."

Crap. That was only half an hour away. "I need to clean up. I'll be at the door at six. Bye!"

Rosalee took the stairs to the bathroom two at a time, hoping that either her pop or Freddy had the decency to leave their shaving gear somewhere child-unfriendly. She located Freddie's razor handle and spare blades, stuck a towel over the heated rail, then flung herself in the shower. Five minutes later and after a shave job that would've shamed an Aussie sheep-shearer, she'd shed her hair and leapt out of the shower. She dried off and slipped her swimming costume straight on, pulling her clothes over. At the last minute she felt stinging on her fingertips and realised she'd nicked herself with the blade. The smell made her snap quickly to Fuschbau, which was a new and unwelcome part of her life which she found a little dizzying. She grabbed hold of the sink and saw her face in the mirror, fading slowly back from the foxy features, the white and reddy-brown fur resettling back into her face.

Not so much on her arms, which were really itchy. That was slow to fade. Eventually they settled back to normal, leaving her with a soft layer of forearm down that she definitely didn't have before. She stared. It was blonde hair, at least. She tried not to panic – her legs were still really, really itchy. She pulled up her pants legs, dreading to see how her shins looked and….

…and they looked as hairy as if she'd been double-encased in plaster for eight weeks. That wasn't fair. Her blood ran cold. How can a woge leave her _hairy_? Wogeing should make her furry, not hairy, not that furry would be an improvement at the swimming gala. She bolted back up the stairs and dry-shaved at sixty strokes a minute, this time, getting about seven or eight razor nicks. She looked like she'd been attacked by a low-flying squadron of paper-cut planes. She squeezed her eyes shut before the sight could make her woge again, and then the doorbell rang. She ignored it for a few moments, wondering what to do.

"Ro-sa-lee! You coming out or what?"

"What!" she answered, but made it to the door at least, to be polite.

"I said are you coming out?" Mariette repeated and Rosalee suppressed the eye roll before it took flight.

"I'm out, but I'm not coming. To the gala, that is," she clarified. "I'm on."

"You're not coming out cause you're on?" Mariette looked mystified.

Rosalee decided she'd have to start hanging out with someone with a firmer grasp on euphemistic prepositions. "Time of the month, you know?"

"Oh. Ok. That's a shame… Ryan'll be there!"

Now there was a reinforced reason to stay home. The Halistosis Hundjager. "Have a good time, Mariette. Thanks for coming to pick me up."

She waited for Mariette to go, then beetled down to the drug store to get waxing gear. Being a foxy chick was much harder than it looked.

* * *

**1988… Sean Antoine Renard (aged 18)**

Sean led Terese back to the house by the hand and helped her up the steps with her huge bag. A little charm wouldn't go amiss here, if they were going to share ideas for the design of the sinister corner at the academy's canteen. She had an excellent notion of turn-of-the-eighteenth century design, which really helped to commission the ancient tables, and he loved to share best practice. Especially when he got credit for all the best practice. And she was pretty cute too, for a Hexenbiest. She gave him a beam that said that he was ridiculously cute, for a Hexenbiest, and he gave her his best uncommitted smile as he held the door open. Mutual appreciation of cuteness could wait till later. First – coffee, and idea-stealing.

Dunsmore, his butler, ushered them into the front room but Sean shook his head.

"In my room, I think. The light's better in there."

"Not at the moment it isn't, Sir," he confessed quietly. "It's a touch atmospheric. Perhaps if you keep her pointlessly interested in the bookshelves for a few moments, I could pop back and…"

"What do you mean 'a touch atmospheric'?"

"Convivial to carnal pursuits."

"What?" Sean shot Terese a warm smile and towed Dunsmore into the corridor by his elbow. "Duns, what made you think I was out this evening in search of carnal pursuits?"

"The smirking practice. The confident stride and that _particular _leather jacket all combined to give the indutible, yet nonetheless incorrect impression that…."

"That what?"

"That you planned to get lucky, Sir."

Sean flushed. For all his enigmatic practice, in which he was scoring so highly at the National Academy, he couldn't get a thing past his Butler. "Fine. So what do you mean by 'atmospheric?'"

"Oh my word, Sean! It's so… intense in here!"

Dunsmore gave an elderly, winsome beam, but Sean strode to his bedroom to check the damage. Terese sat on the edge of his bed in a dark, dark room, lit only by candles. All the mirrors were covered over. All of them – in black silk drapes.

"I'll be back with coffee," Sean said. "Dunsmore has the night off." Then he towed the butler back into the corridor. "What the hell are you thinking? The mirrors… all covered over?"

"Ah, well. That's a delicate subject, sir. Perhaps if nookie is not in fact on your evening's agenda after all, you could lead her back to the front room, and―"

"No! I want you to explain the covered mirrors!"

"I thought that things would run more smoothly for you and lead to your first second date if um… she were unable to see you at the critical moment, so to speak. You see, um…. It occurs to me that certain particular moments of joy bring out your less dashing angles."

Sean gaped. "HAVE YOU BEEN SPYING ON ME?"

Dunsmore flushed. "Of course not!"

"Then…?"

"Well, some combinations of sound-effects are rather conclusive, Sir. You yelling, female screaming, the crashing of furniture being overturned during a disorganised attempt to re-robe oneself, the sound of feet heading for the front door as said female propels herself from the property… such audial clues build a reliable picture, if you like."

Terese had come to the door and opened it, shooting him a particularly salacious grin. Ok, maybe the idea-stealing could wait until the morning. "I don't like coffee," she admitted.

"Fine. No coffee," he murmured back at her, leaning purposefully on the doorjamb. "I'll be there in just a moment."

She slid in and he hung back for one last moment with Dunsmore. "Fine – we'll keep the atmospheric drapes, but more candles, please."

"Very good, sir. I should tell you about the other precautionary devices, by the way."

"Oh?" Sean asked, half expecting blindfolds to be mentioned.

"The condoms are in the bedside top draw. Just so that you don't experience any unnecessary moments of unseemly groping."


	15. Wesen puberties: Monroe & Rabe

**Just because it seemed to be a popular theme… A Wesen Puberties Monroe Special. Thanks for the reviews and the suggestions, lol!**

1988: Eddie Monroe – aged 20; Frank Rabe – aged 23

Frank's voice sounded extra weary from behind him as he grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge in the tiny flat. "Eddie… has it ever occurred to you that this is a slightly degrading way of picking dates for the dance?"

"Dates? Dude, I'm only taking one girl with me. I just want to take the _right _one. Stop bitching and keep working the list." Monroe turned and leant against the kitchen counter as Frank sighed almightily and flipped to the next page in the yearbook.

"Uh…Diane Farland?"

"The intense brunette that monitors the coffee?" Eddie pulled a face. "Uh… she's o-kay… a little scary though."

Frank looked vaguely dreamy. "I always thought she was a little motherly, actually."

"Well she is, kinda. She's perfect if you want the kind of mother who'd accidentally set fire to all your girlfriends, so… not for me, thanks." He strolled back into the front room and had his butt almost on the seat when Frank roared.

"NOT IN MY CHAIR!"

Monroe and beer were propelled into the air with shock and his face slammed dizzyingly into Blutbad and back. "DUDE! Made me spill!"

"You know how I feel about you sitting in my chair!"

"Will you get a fricking beanbag or something? I am so sick of sitting on the damn floor. You _have _to sort your possession issues, man." Monroe dabbed his legs irritably with a cloth from the sink. "And what are you going to say to Diane? 'Sure, I'd love to do the horizontal fandango with you, but stay the hell away from my furniture!'?"

"I'm working on it," Frank muttered, red-faced.

"Well work on it fast, cause the dance is on Friday and if you plan to get to fourth base, she's got to be allowed somewhere near your bed." He chugged his beer to calm his pulse down a little.

"I'm putting her on my first-to-ask list," Frank muttered. "Ok… Kitty McStreeters."

"Uh uh. No way. She's permanently stoned. All bong and no bang. Next!"

"Denise Parker."

"No no no no and no. She's a campaigner."

Frank looked annoyed. "That's a good thing. She has interests. You spend a lot more time having a good, natural build-up-to-sex conversation with girls if they have interests."

"Yeah, but her interests are in weird rallies and fundraisers."

Frank pulled an exasperated face. "I thought you guys were pretty friendly earlier in the year?"

He shuddered. "We were… until she dragged me to the 'Save Tomato Corner' march. That was just a nightmare of red clothes, man. Never again. It was such a nice, peaceful crowd and there I was, in the middle of it, itching to kill everyone."

"So picky," Frank muttered. "Ok, moving on…Tamara Wells?"

Monroe nodded approvingly, not having thought about her before because she was just a little bit too close to the girl-next-door line. But, she was smart - doing her med exams - pretty cute, none-too-pushy, liked a good joke… "Good suggestion! Why are you frowning?"

"I'm pretty sure she's Koningschlange."

"What makes you say that?"

"Rumour," Frank said darkly. "She always seems to know who's alive and who's dead."

Monroe scratched his head. "What kind of clue is that? She's a med student! I'm kinda glad she knows who's alive and who's dead!"

"Fine, if you want to test the Koningschlange theory when it's time for her to stick her tongue down your throat, be my guest."

He rolled his eyes. Koningschlange. Yeah, right. "Ok, we know their hangouts, right?"

Frank nodded. "Most of them."

"So let's do the ask-out deed tomorrow lunch-time, commit to it, and we can compare notes tomorrow. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Then we can go get our tuxes on the bulk buy deal."

**X x X**

**Next day. Lunchtime.**

Eddie glared sullenly across at Rabe, whose facial expression just said 'success'. "You're going with Diane, aren't you?"

"Damn I am." Frank sipped on his coffee and pointed disapprovingly at the 'random' cup of spirits in Monroe's hand. "A little early for that, isn't it?"

"I'll have you know that I'm in shock. I need all the scotch I can get." His fingers jittered uncontrollably over to the cup and he took another long, numbing swig. He was drinking enough these days that alcohol could no longer control the woge or numb it properly, but he needed to feel a little floaty after his Tamara trauma.

"Did it go a little too well?" Frank asked, his eyes twinkling. "Did she, perchance, stick her tongue down your throat?"

"Oh, don't…." he felt physically sick. It started well. He'd approached Tamara in the tunnel block, leading to the med labs overlooking the green, and she seemed reasonably pleased to see him. Even congratulated him on combining the blacks in his black clothing nicely which was _really _cool because he doubted that anyone else could really appreciate the contrast of black-hole-of-Calcutta black (in satin on shirt) with matte coal black (on trousers). "I brought up the dance, and she said she didn't have anyone to go with yet, so she'd love me to take her."

"Ok. I'm not seeing the trauma, here."

"Well. She was _so _pleased I'd asked, she went for a little kiss. No really, just a little kiss, which was fine. All fine, so normal, up yours Rabe, I thought." But she was in a hurry cause her group was dashing off to forensics class and I had to run and keep up. We exchanged details and I was going to pick her up at seven."

"Oh dear. _Going_ to?"

"She _is_ a Koningschlange," Eddie muttered. "A nervous one, too. I doubt she's going into medicine any more."

"Monroe! What happened?"

"At the last moment, she pulled me into the mortuary for an impromptu feel. Then obviously got the creeps because we hadn't looked before we lunged. She started wogeing slightly, did the scaly thing… did the long-tongue thing.. looked a little panicked about her hands going green… then she got the 'lick-a-pulse-in-the-air' thing – or not, in her case, since we were in a mortuary. Next thing I know, she's running, screaming 'I CAN TASTE DEAD PEOPLE!' across the lunch area, which has probably killed off her social life here as well as her prospects of working in medicine."

Frank wept unsympathetically into his coffee cup, occasionally wiping a tear of mirth away. "I'm sorry… awful of me, but…"

"Dude! Not funny!"

"Course not." Frank pinched his face stern. "So, what you going to do?"

Competitive, wolfish annoyance built up in Monroe at the enduring smirk on his friend's face. Just cause he was an older Jagerbar, he thought he had it all worked out. Damn it. He was young, he was hot, he had the abs going and nearly some biceps and – he was going to aim high. "I notice that no one has asked out Cindi Thoroughgood yet."

Frank spat his coffee across the table. "Aiming a little high, now? A little out of your league, Monroe?"

"Says who? I'm in the season for loving and once I apply the charm… that's that. Besides, no one has asked her out yet because everyone assumes that someone has asked her out. Thus, my unique selling point will be… someone prepared to ask her out."

"Good luck with that. Aim for the stars, fall to the moon, etc. Just get lucky so we can get the double tux-order, right?"

Monroe slammed the lunch table decisively. "Right!"

**X x X**

Lucky? Monroe grinned in front of the mirror as he pulled his hair to one side. He looked dashing for precisely fifteen seconds until his hair dropped back down to his face, but for once he didn't even care about this current male fashion fascism against guys whose hair grew towards the nose because _she said yes._ She may only have said _yes_ because he beat the crap out of two Bauerschwein trying to look down her top, and she may have only have said it after some heavy persuasion from himself, but oh man…

Her body swam before his eyes. The long, curly blonde hair (hopefully Rabe wouldn't freak out if she left any on his carpet), the twinkling eyes, the neat legs and tiny waist, the décolletage of the upper heavens, sitting neatly in the v of her lilac shirt…

"MONROE, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE BATHROOM!"

"Alright!" Jeez. Possession issues. Frank was in for a truncated evening of sex, he was sure of it.

They finished cleaning up, picked up their respective ladies, and re-united by the punchbowl at nine, swapping arrogant grins. All going well.

The final dance swung round and he found that he had limited time in which to persuade her to accompany him to the post-dance party at Frank's place.

Suddenly, she gazed up at him softly. "I can't begin to thank you for what you did before – with those jerks."

He mused on this. "Well… you could _try_ to begin to thank me."

"Huh?"

He swirled her round and carried on the dance right underneath the glitter ball. "You could maybe start out with a light grovel, go from there, and I'll tell you if you're in the right ballpark or not."

"Are you joking with me?"

Damn. A little much? He bounced his eyebrows rogueishly at her and her face cracked into a reluctant smile.

"Well, thanks anyway."

They danced a little more. They smooched (YES!) and were anon in the back of Frank's car (he didn't drink) and back at his flat in no time.

They wasted minimal time on pretending to like coffee. Diane's deep growl from next door was a little unsettling, but from the sound effects, it appeared that she didn't mind giving the bed a miss. The floorboards creaked like a bunch of competitive crypt doors.

Cindi slipped her hand up his shirt and fiddled with his chest, then ripped his shirt off altogether. His buttons would never be seen again. He gaped. She filled his gape with snog and suddenly they crashed backwards onto the couch, groping, kissing, heaving, completely failing to identify a useful edge of clothing to untie between the pair of them. Off balance, they rolled and landed on the floor, him almost crushing the daylights out of her.

"S..sorry," he panted.

She shook her head, knelt up and pulled her dress away, then handwalked over the top of him. He swallowed.

RED BRA.

Monroe squeezed his eyes shut as her scent overwhelmed him. His dick was beating a tribal tattoo in his own pants as she revealed red undies, too… that décolletage (still looking heavenly, but at this angle, a little like the southern view of the Grand Canyon).

RED RED RED!

He leant up and gripped her bra strap with his teeth, reaching round the back, determined to get it off before he lost control.

"OW! You _bit me!_"

"Huh?" He stared. God, he'd even left a long, red line… "I'm so sorry! I don't know what happened, I'll just…uh…"

"Don't lick it! _eugh_!"

What was he supposed to do? He beamed winsomely. "Sorry, I'm just a tidy guy."

"Weird guy!" she interjected. "Ok, bra's off. What now?"

Doggy position, he thought immediately. Then she can't see if… his eyes snapped wide as she popped his fly and dived straight down to his bareness without so much as a sniff warning. He tipped back his head and howled, involuntarily.

She lifted her face from his hips. Her décolletage was still pure canyon, but her face would've blended in nicely with Mount Rushmore. "You _howled_."

"Did not!"

"Well, what was that noise?"

He looked at her innocently, trying very hard not to look at her red undies, then his eyes became one with her red-ness and joined in. Oh crap. She stared disbelievingly.

He flapped his furry hands reassuringly. "It's still me!"

She looked totally poleaxed. I've lusted after your butt for ages and you turn out to be a werewolf?"

"I am NOT a werewolf!" god, he _hated _that. His life had been a misery since The Howling was released at the cinema. "NOT a werewolf, he repeated, heatedly.

"Oh." And now, disappointed. Ok, this chick was high maintenance. No wonder no one had invited her to the dance.

He propped himself up on his elbows. "Look at it this way – so long as you stay away from red, we can still scrape the flat cello during the full moon. And I won't scream whenever your mom brings out the family silver for dinner."

She grinned and aimed for his fly again. "Deal."


	16. Growing pains of a young lion king

**And one more painful puberty to overcome…. The awful growing pains of a young Lion King… **

* * *

Jan Vergeer (future Director of Personnel, Portland PD), aged 17, Koninglowen

_American college of Wassenaar, The Netherlands, 1991_

* * *

Mr Matthijs Axel pushed his office door open at two minutes to eleven to 'advertise' the beginning of his student welfare 'drop-in' surgery, then went back to his laptop to get on with his novel. His surgery hours had been technically opened to all students but his promotions had been specifically coded on agreement with wesen parents to let their children know that they could come to him if they were suffering any particularly inexpressible growing pains. Not many wesen students appeared to have caught on. Unfortunately, quite a few human students _had_ made use of the drop-in service: mostly to drop out of various courses they didn't want to do any more, invariably with requests preceded with half-hour sob stories. Axel looked suspiciously up and down the corridor for lurkers. There was no one outside waiting.

With a chuckle of glee, Axel dashed to his desk and booted up chapter four on his laptop, brandishing his fingers over the keyboard as the perfect exchange between his hero and heroine came to life in his head as the wind howled past them while they were stranded in their cave. He had no idea why they were in a cave. He'd have to work back to that. First, the hero had to express his love, ideally with a shoulder-grab and violent kiss―

"Mr Axel?"

Axel screamed inside. His heroine was about to reply. He looked up to see Stanley Fraser standing by his desk, clutching his clipboard. He tried to smile warmly at the English teacher but his inner Hundjager thought longingly of wringing the man by his neck. "Yes?"

"The principal asked me to sit in on this surgery session with you."

Axel closed chapter four with a near snarl. How were wesen students supposed to speak freely in front of this dolt? "Why?"

"Because he's concerned that you're using the four hours a week that you're holding these sessions to get on with your novel, rather than doing any actual teaching."

Damn. "That is manifestly untrue," Axel lied. Well, half-lied.

"Do you have a register?"

"Of course I don't have a register! It is a drop-in session, hé? Not a take-a-ticket session!"

The elderly teacher shook his head. "No, I mean – do you keep a record of the students you've seen?"

"That is confidential," Axel muttered. There was no way that he was going to reveal that the only student who'd been to see him on repeat was Jan Vergeer, and he was going through a particularly sticky patch with his vocals maturing, again, and his second set of adult Lowen incisors coming through.

"Ah, Vergeer," Fraser muttered, and Axel looked over in surprise.

"How did you…?"

"You have his details on the screen, ready." The reedy, tweedy little jerk gave Axel a self-satisfied smile. "It is the risk of doing such a rapid alt-tab when someone moves next to your PC. You forget what other windows are open when you try to minimise what you're hiding."

"Shut up," he muttered. And closed Jan's screen.

"I can't get comfortable around that boy, you know," Fraser went on. "He's improbably polite. If he didn't look so sincere all the time, I'd think he was mocking me. And he… says weird things."

Axel sighed. He'd had more than one conversation with Jan about the importance of lying a bit more if he wanted to keep his Lowen nature secret. The boy-man was wholly incapable of being anything other than straightforward, though. "He's smart, and he's good to the little students―"

"―And he's always trying to get out of team activities, and he talks like he learnt English during the Napoleonic Wars."

"That's _your_ fault for making the advanced placement class read Horatio Hornblower novels!"

"He's been talking like that since he was seven!"

A polite knock. "Sirs?"

Axel and Fraser cut off together, neither of them surprised to see Jan filling the doorway. Axel smiled meaningfully at him and tried jerking his head in a _go away_ style. "If you've come to discuss that _thing_ we were talking about earlier, I'll drop by your room later, and―"

"What thing?" Fraser demanded and Axel caught Jan's faintly panicked gaze.

"I'm afraid there are a couple of things," Jan began, declining to take the seat offered to him, so he loomed over them at his full six-foot-five. "Firstly…I very much regret that I can't take part in tonight's debate with the American College of the Hague, Mr Fraser."

Axel snickered inwardly. He happened to know that Fraser had 100 euros resting on that semi-final.

"WHAT? You can't back out now!"

"I'm afraid I have a dentist's appointment. It's completely unavoidable."

Axel noticed that Jan was speaking unusually softly, so as not to agitate his voice much. Uh oh. It meant that Jan was deliberately holding back, and Fraser looked as if he wasn't going to let this particular back-out slide without an argument.

"This afternoon?" Fraser brightened. "Well, that's no problem. I'll give you a lift there and back, and if you're feeling a bit wobbly afterwards, I'll get some of the other boys to prop you up against something."

Jan pulled an apologetic face. "The appointment is at eight."

"That's a bit out of hours, isn't it?"

"I have a very nervous dentist."

Axel dipped his face into his hands. Smooth, Jan. Smooth…

Fraser blustered. "Well I'm very sorry for your dentist, but why can't he be nervous in normal, um, dentistry hours?"

Jan looked sheepish. "Well, he probably _could_ but it would get rather expensive for him. It doesn't inspire confidence in his other patients when he runs screaming through the waiting room."

"Right," Fraser said faintly. "Difficult patient, are you?"

Jan blushed slightly and ran his fingers through thick black hair. "I'm quite hard work."

"How hard?"

"I bite and roar when I get stressed."

"Do you?" Fraser's eyebrows shot up into his hairline and Axel felt the need to intervene.

"It's _just one of those things,_" he said in a loaded voice, which was his wesen code for 'shut the hell up before this gets too weird'.

"What things?" Fraser demanded.

"Growing pains," Axel explained. "You know… puberty?"

"Of course I know puberty! As it happens, I didn't have a very easy puberty either, but _I_ didn't feel compelled to terrorise my dentist."

"Well I don't either, Sir," Jan protested. "I usually take a hypnotist with me to calm him down, and I also have treatment under voluntary general anaesthetic. Even if I have an afternoon appointment, I'll still be too wobbly by this evening."

"You usually…?" Fraser broke off, flabbergasted, then seethed in the face of this irrefutable argument. "Fine, so you're out of the debate. Choir tomorrow, you're not evading."

"Ah – that's the second thing."

"Do not tell me that you're backing out of that as well?"

"My voice is breaking," Jan added.

"Again?" Fraser looked flabbergasted. "Vergeer, you're 17! You already sound like you're talking from the bottom of a well. How much deeper are you expecting your voice to get?"

"It may yet drop another half-octave, Sir," he mumbled.

"Might it yet? Hmmm!" Fraser drummed his pen on his clipboard and met Axel's eye. "What was going to be your view on this latest evasion of group activities?"

"I think it is fruitless to have a broken voice leading a choir," Axel warned.

"I thought you'd say that," Fraser said darkly. "It's a good job I'm here – these lads need to develop a thicker skin. Now, look Jan, all us lads have gone through that horrible phase of going baritone to falsetto within four syllables. You're just going to have to grin and bear it!"

"I think in his case, Fraser―"

"Really, Sir, trust me on this. I _can't._"

"It may well be slightly more embarrassing for you than the other lads, as their voices all _finished_ breaking quite some time ago, but hey, if anyone gives you a hard time, you can point out that you had to start shaving when you were about thirteen."

Axel felt for the lad, but couldn't help feeling that he'd slightly dug his own hole, here, unless of course his father hadn't told him about the 'one of those things' catchphrase to warn of wesen slip-ups. He got up and walked round the desk, clamping his palm on Jan's forehead, trying to give him an 'out'. "He does feel rather warm, Fraser. Perhaps we should review tomorrow morning, hé?"

"Nope! He is a slippery customer, and he knows it. He's opted out of ten opt-ins this semester alone. Come on now, Jan. What is the worst thing that could happen?"

Jan shifted in his seat.

"Speak up, lad!"

"Fine! I think it's going to be―" Jan woged, thankfully invisible to Fraser, but Axel saw the enormous eye-teeth rocketing out, the green eyes flashing amber, and he broke into a full, guttural roar: "―EMB-ARR-ASS-ING!" He opened his mouth to apologise, but could only add "Mew!"

Fraser peeled himself off the floor from behind his desk and dusted himself down rapidly while heading for the door. "Um.. yes. I can see why you might not want to do that in public. Uh… Mr Axel, book him in for a doctor's appointment as well, will you? Got to go. BYE!"

Axel landed a sympathetic hand on Jan's shoulder. "It's the meowing that gets you, isn't it, son?"

Jan nodded vigorously. "It's awful, sir. Limitless sniggering ensues."

"He's not going to leave you alone, you know. Shall we try you again with rugby? How are your claws?"

Jan grinned. "Oh, fully retracted now. That would be good."

"Splendid. Every Saturday morning at nine. Right. Let's go and hypnotise that dentist…"


	17. Nick Flick (his romantic teenage years)

**Ok, this is the last in the 'puberty series' before I move onto other silly ideas. A few people have asked what Nick's teenage years with Marie were like, so I've had a stab at it here :) I hope you like. Thanks for all the reviews on the last few chapters! I really do appreciate them, and take a lot of ideas from them. Hope you enjoy my really young version of Nick.**

* * *

Nick waited with Laurenz outside Dula's homeroom for the bell to ring while Laurenz went through his little book of aphrodisiacs. He was throwing out some pretty revolting recipe suggestions and Nick found himself pulling a face every third ingredient.

"Remind me why we're looking up these spells?"

"Not spells," Laurenz grunted. "Potions. They all work. My great aunt complicated the book-"

"Confiscated!"

"She confris...confersk- tchah. She took it off some witch and translated it into drawings."

"I'm beginning to believe the rumour that you're slightly nuts," Nick muttered, leaning over to look at the book. It was full of dubious doodles. It really _had_ been translated into drawings. "And you still haven't told me why-"

The oversized german exchange student rested his elbow on Nick's head, which he mistakenly believed was an acceptable conversational posture. "You like Dula, don't you?"

"Uh...yea-ah... but possibly not so much that I need an aphrodisiac. I'd settle for a movie night or something, you know. Ideally without Aunt Marie or her mom stalking us."

"Movies are useless. Distracting. You know, I have everything else on this list. We just need a frog."

Nick gaped. "I'm not drinking anything involving parts of a frog!"

"You don't have to. Dula does."

"I'm not sure that's any better. The idea is that we get to kiss at some point, right?"

The homebell went off right in Nick's ear, making him flinch and Laurenz - who was a lot closer to the ceiling - jump. Students thundered out the door like Wildebeest and Dula brought up the rear, looking a little more pale than usual and struggling with her crutches. Dula was the most over-protected girl on the face of the earth. She was tiny (making Nick feel like a giant at five foot six) had problems with her immunity and was still struggling to clear an infection she got on her shin five months back. Her mom would home school her if Dula would let her. But she was as truculent as she was teeny. Nick thought he loved her a little bit.

He grinned as she battled her way out of the room and took her crutches. "Hey, Dodo. A slightly tired day or death's doorstep day, or...?"

"Death's driveway," she panted, and Nick lifted her as Laurenz dipped down to give her a piggy back. "Not so bad but I could do with a couch. And I need you to do the wibbly islands pictures for my geography homework."

"Wibbly islands?"

"Galapagos islands," Laurenz translated, and handed Nick her crutches to carry while he hefted her on his back to the bus stop.

"Oh sure, I'll do all your drawing." Again. "What happened to 'please'?"

"I said it in a 'please' kind of way, didn't I? We still going to your place, Nick?"

"Sure. I asked my aunt to stay out tonight. What about your mom, though?"

"Eh... I didn't ask her yet."

Laurenz frowned down from the bus stop sign. "Dodo... When you try to do last minute things, she always finds a reason to say no."

"But if she asks ahead, her mom always finds obstacles and suggests another night," Nick said. "There's no winning with Mrs Hurst."

Dula beamed at Nick from between Laurie's shoulder blades. "I'll tell her you're really sick and need nursing."

"You will not! As soon as she's put you in the car she'll storm the house and fumigate me, or something."

"Good point. So I'll call her with my voice all muffled and pretend I've been taken for ransom."

"Be serious! I do not want cops breaking down my back door!"

They got the school bus, Dula sharing a seat with Nick, Nick going cross-eyed at every pressure jolt at every speed hump, until they were dumped out at Tranmere Street and made their way down to Nick's Aunt's two bedroom house on the corner. Nick guided Dula in and got her onto the couch, then hopped back outside to find Laurenz. The friendly giant stood at the gate staring wide-eyed at the top window, shifting from foot to foot, rolling his head slightly on his neck like he'd cricked it and couldn't move yet. Nick went over.

"You alright? What's up?"

"Um.. ah... I got things to do."

"Huh? But we planned this." Nick followed Laurie's gaze up to the window. Aunt Marie stared back with eyes like gimlets, then caught Nick's frown and gave him a cheerful wave. He waved back, bemused. "Ok, I was kind of expecting her to be out, but we'll have enough food for four. Are you sure..."

"Sorry, I just came to drop off Dula." Laurenz gave him a quick nervous smile and handed over something wet and green.

"EUGHHH!"

"Already dead by your neighbour's pond. Just dry it out a little and put it in a jar, ok? We will hang out some more tomorrow."

"Hang out some more as in 'chill together', I hope, not... hang out more frogs?" Nick held it gingerly by one slippery foot - at arm's length. "Laurie, I'm not spending my fourteenth birthday handling dead frog. Got that?"

"Hmph. Just dry it, Nick. I'll use it if you don't. See you tomorrow."

"O-kay..." Nick took the yukky thing indoors, found a constantly-ignored plate from the cabinet and dumped the frog on it then stuck it in the microwave before going to wash his hands. He grabbed Dula a pepsi from the fridge while she finished up reassuring her mom down the phone that she wasn't going to pass away at Nick's place and grudgingly accepted a lift home later. "Sounded like hard work?"

"Just a little bit! Thanks, Nick..." She took the can and a big swig. "So, I noticed from the homeroom boards that you took home economics as one of your options next semester?"

Nick nodded and fixed himself a soda.

"Is that to keep me company, or...?"

"Yeah kind of." Nick wandered over to the couch, keeping his voice low with his aunt still upstairs. "And it's also about survival. I mean... you've been here for dinner before, right?"

Dula giggled. "Low pie?"

Nick leapt over the back of the couch, chuckling at the memory of him and Dula leaning way, way over this huge le creuset casserole dish until finally spotting about an inch of pie at the bottom of it. "I think she slightly underestimated the ingredients. Not one of her gold moments as a chef."

"You know that taking Home Ec is going to get you shoved into a dozen lockers, right?"

"Not any more." Nick smiled smugly. "Not with Laurie around."

"He strikes me as a bit of an ogre," Marie said suddenly, joining them in the kitchen.

"Did you do something to scare him off?"

"How would I do that?" Marie gave him a wounded look.

Nick frowned. Truthfully, he had no idea. But this wasn't the first time he'd brought a buddy home who'd randomly fled, and he wasn't going to let this lie. Laurie had been his friend since the day he'd pulled a splinter out of his hand from a wrecked baseball bat and, in return, Laurie had stood between him and a deliberately misfired baseball going at 60mph. "That 'ogre' has saved me from many a locker-room beating. I don't know why you think he's a problem, but he's been pretty decent to me."

"Hmmm."

"No, really! Tell me what happened back there, because he was all set for a chinese and an evening in, then something happened to scare the crap out of him!"

"Language, Nick!"

"Marie...!"

"He owes me twenty five dollars on a non-returned DVD. He should feel nervous looking at me."

"You're saying that unpaid library fines are making him quake in his boots?" Nick's crossness was slightly diluted by Dula's giggle from the couch. It did seem a little ridiculous. Not only was Laurie huge for 15, but he was a man of means. He wasn't the brightest guy around and needed all his English homework - any homework - read over a few times before he handed it in, but he was on a European exchange grant. His weekly allowance made Nick's eyes water with envy. "Sorry, I'm not buying that."

"I don't expect you to, Nick. It's only when you get older that you learn to see what lies beneath."

Nick met Dula's eyes and she pulled a face, mouthing at him. _Wow, cheery!_

"You remember I asked if Dula could stay for dinner?" Nick asked, changing the subject. "I thought we could get take-out."

"Did you?" Marie marched across the kitchen and got plates and cutlery out. "You trying to evade my cooking again?"

"No! No, no no..." he wilted under her stare. "Well, it's just that... uh... ok. Yeah."

"Well sadly for you, because I remembered that you asked, I actually made some dinner last night." Marie beamed at him from under her cropped hair. "Spaghetti bolognese. I just need to heat it up. Could you get the water on?"

"Sure. Thanks." Nick shot Dula an apologetic look. He'd pretty much promised her Chinese, which she was never allowed at home in case the eggrolls made her come out in hives.

"So what are your parents up to tonight, Julia? Marie suddenly asked.

"It's Dula, ma'am. My dad's at the lodge. Not sure what my mom's up to. Probably rearranging the carpool schedule just cause it's not very fresh any more."

Nick snickered as he fiddled with the pans. He often wondered how Mrs Hurst had the time to be so radically over protective with the sheer number of school and community ventures she coordinated. Sometimes he felt that she wanted to keep Dula home because she didn't fit the 'popular' demographic of Rock High, like her older brothers and younger sisters, but he bit that thought back whenever it floated to the surface. Mrs Hurst thought there was something else wrong with Dula, beyond being tiny, and had fought tooth and nail to be taken seriously by a range of doctors - all of whom wrote her off as a hysterical parent.

"Why are you called Dula?"

"My little brother couldn't handle 'Julia' and the kiddie name just kind of stuck."

"Is your father a mason?"

"I don't know. Why do you ask?" Dula cheerfully grabbed a handful of potato chips from the bowl Nick handed her, put them in Nick's spare palm, and kept hold of the bowl. He rolled his eyes and went to get himself some more chips. How she stayed so small eating like this was beyond him...

"Masons and lodges tend to go together. Most of the time," Marie murmured, shoving the bolognese into a pyrex to re-heat. "Nick - the spaghetti!"

"Oh, sorry." He put the pasta in the rolling water, having gotten distracted wondering why Dula was getting the third degree. He remembered the frog at just the moment that Marie pulled the microwave door open and uttered a thin scream that made Dula scream back in shock, and which just sort of set up a scream pingpong match between them until they finally realised that there was no actual emergency.

Nick came out from under the kitchen table with his fingers in his ears, greeted instantly with a clip upside his head from Marie. But he did notice that some of the tension in the room had vanished. Marie was actually smiling at Dula - a proper smile. Not the tolerate-my-nephew's-friends smile he'd gotten used to. Maybe she'd decided that Dodo was worthwhile. In slightly lighter spirits, Aunt Marie raised her brows at him.

"Nicholas Burkhardt! Why the dead frog in the microwave?"

He pinkened. "Storage."

"Storage?"

"Long story." He looked at his aunt in appeal. Please don't get all steely right now?

"Tell it tomorrow," Marie sighed. "And stop giving me puppy eyes. It's not going to make me forget the frog."

"I wasn't!"

"You were," but Marie ruffled his hair as she went out of the room. "A quick word please, Nick, then you're on your own for a while."

He followed her into the garage and beamed as she bipped the door open. "So you are actually going out?"

"Put down the party poppers, Nick. It's only for a couple of hours. I just wanted to give you a little advice. Dula is a nice girl, but-"

"Aunt Marie..." he began warningly, but she mimed a lipzip and he shut up, folding his arms crossly.

"-But you have no chance of getting to first base with her unless you stop moving."

Nick gaped at the injustice of this. "It's you that keeps moving us! This must be our third house in what, 13 months?"

Marie ruffled his hair. "No. I mean you need to stop moving. She gives you these big gooey eyes and leans towards you, then you're like 'Oh! let's inspect this revolting bug', duck down, and she's smooching thin air. I know you like her, so maybe give her a chance to show you that she does?"

"How come you're giving this smooch your blessing all of a sudden?"

Marie gave him a sudden, unexpected hug. "She's not what I thought she was. I've decided I like her and... life is short, Nick. It will get complicated and lonely at times, so enjoy these days while you can. Now go in there and show her what you're made of. You won't have these chances forever, you know."

He returned the cuddle, still surprised. "Thanks for the advice," he said. And the futuristic gloom, he added inwardly. She snapped out of the embrace and went for her car.

"Oh, by the way... Bolognese needs three minutes on high, stand for a minute, then another 4 minutes."

"Want me to save you some?"

"Oh, no thanks. I'm having Chinese on my way home." Marie got in the car and reversed out of the drive, leaving him delighted and annoyed at the same time. He bounced back into the house to show Dula 'what he was made of'.

They inspected the bolognese and came to the conclusion that they didn't trust any recipe that involved carrots, peas and eggplant. So, to get the best of both worlds of peace and quiet and decent food, they ordered Chinese, cooked the bolognese and pasta, made some plates messy and stuck them in the dishwasher, then sat down to enjoy their ill-gotten dinner, eating straight out of the cartons.

"You know, Nick, Laurie's not the first person who's reacted to your aunt like that."

"I know," he said dully. "And I'm not buying this ridiculous library fine explanation."

"And I'm not convinced that she's just a librarian." Dula forked her noodles enthusiastically, eyes gleaming, and Nick sensed another conspiracy theory coming on. She seemed to live for them.

"You think she's got another job?"

"I think... no, you'll think I'm nuts." She stuffed a mountain of noodle into her mouth and Nick sighed, knowing that it was now his job to drag the information out of her like he was a cop or something.

"What? C'mon, tell me. I'm not going to think you're any more nuts than I already do."

"No. It's too silly."

"Tell me, or I'll tickle you for withholding information!"

"I think she's moonlighting as an unlicensed chiropractor. And I think she's a really bad one."

Nick nearly spat his black bean sauce out, laughing. "Huh?"

"Think about it! Remember when we tailed her in Whole Foods? At least two guys in the store, both trying to roll cricks out of their stiff necks, clapped eyes on her, panicked and fled. I think your Aunt is suffering from anti-word-of-mouth marketing. People see her and are terrified of being treated by her."

Nick managed to stop chuckling eventually. "Ok. That is your weirdest conspiracy theory yet."

She shrugged. "Look at the facts, Nick."

"That's the same argument you used to convince me that the bacon marketing board was responsible for the assassination of Linda McCartney."

"She turned so many people vegan. Such an obvious target."

"She died of cancer!"

"That's what they all say!"

"I'm sorry, but I don't buy the chiropractor-from-hell explanation any more than the library fine one. Besides, even if that were the case, all they have to do is not make eyecontact! It's not like she's going to march up to them in the middle of a store and rearrange their muscles for them, is it?"

Dula hummed ambivalently. "I dunno. She's a pretty determined woman. Where are you going?"

"To get pudding, weirdo!" And to dim the lights, he thought. There was something vaguely sexy about Dula's ridiculous theories. He spooned about two days' worth of caramel flavoured Haagen Daaz calories into a couple of bowls and took them over to the couch, snapping the light off as he went so that they were barely lit by the bar-heater in the corner of the room. He concentrated fiercely on his ice cream while sitting right next to her on the couch, occasionally snapping his gaze across to her to see if Marie was right about the googly eyes. The first time, he made her jump. The second time, she raised her brows at him.

"Ok, now you're the one with strange neck problems."

"Sorry." He pinkened, glad for the bizarre amount of heat coming off the bar heater. Hopefully she wouldn't notice. Maybe Aunt Marie was talking bull. But then, she'd seemed so sincere. "You nearly done?"

"Finished five minutes ago, Nick, while you were playing chicken-stare with me without asking."

"Alright, alright." He put the bowls to one side and stretched meaningfully, before draping his arm across the back of the couch and ever so casually over her shoulders. If she now asked him if he had a tired arm, he might just call Mrs Hurst himself to arrange an early pick-up. As a big, big hint, he gathered her over and kissed her on top of the head, leaving his lips there for a moment.

"Is your face tired?"

"Oh for God's-MMMFFF!" His protest was smothered by her efficient head-grabbing and fairly violent kiss, landing him sideways and backwards in her lap, almost making him need a physiotherapist and a chiropractor himself. But she was kissing him! Enthusiastically! He got into it while trying to rearrange his posture so he wouldn't break his neck and ruin the mood, and after a long, long visit to first base, they settled down on the sofa, snuggling drunkenly.

"That was nice," she said eventually, laying half on top of him and toying with his chin with her forefinger tip. "I can't wait till you need to shave."

"You plan ahead, don't you Dula?"

"Hmmm. Not too far ahead," she muttered. "I mean, your aunt is this mad, nomadic librarian. Who knows where she'll move you next to shake people down for their fines."

Nick didn't want to think about that. He wanted to stick around here for a long, long time and not have to move again with very little explanation. For now, he was very, very happy and giggled helplessly into her hair as he tightened his hug. And he was looking forward to telling Laurie that they wouldn't be needing that microwaved frog after all.


	18. Damn that phone! (part 2)

**Time has passed, but our Grimm heroes are no safer from their own technology than they were a few months ago. Behold the further embarrassments of the autocorrect...**

**X xX**

Nick: Hey, any plans for dinner yet?

Monroe: Mushroom omelette and mixed green slave with chives

Nick: Eugh! We doing 'Wendigo Wednesdays' or something? :o

Monroe: Gah! Salad*!

* * *

Hank: Hey Nick, what's up?

Nick: Not much. Over at Monroe's

Hank: You sound bored?

Nick: He's got a new hobby and you know how he gets when he's FOCUSSED. Not much conversation happening here. Come on over?

Hank: lol – what's the latest fixation?

Nick: He's taken up orgasm. Good for the coordination, apparently.

Hank: Ah hey, I see why no conversation is happening ;) I think I'll take a rain check.

Nick: wth? I typed origami!

* * *

Renard: How did the union meeting go? Am I still a cold dictator?

Jan: Good feedback actually, Sir. You lead well and solve problems.

Renard: there's a but coming

Jan: you still need to show more warmth towards your visigoths.

Renard: I have visigoths? Anti-Roman barbarians?

Jan: apologies, was trying to say coworkers. This phone has an odd dictionary.

Renard: Happens to the best of us. Actually, not sure if I can tell the difference between visigoths and some of our detectives...

* * *

Monroe: I'm in whore foods. Anything else you need me to grab before heading home?

Monroe: WHOLE foods. Dammit.

Rosalee: I know, lol. I want cashew nuts, eggs, apricots, sage and rhyme

Monroe: That's a tall order! Ok...

Monroe: I got your sage, we're on the same page / and grabbed your nuts, no ifs or buts / home at five on the dot with eggs and apricot...

Rosalee: Wise ass ;)

* * *

Adalind: tll me. Wht do u wnt mre thn NEthing else in ths wrld?

Renard: More vowels.

* * *

Renard: I've arranged cover while I go to Rotterdam. Man is called Earnest my fuck. Please extend all usual courtesies.

Hank: Who?

Renard: Ernest McFuck

Renard: NOT MCFUCK

Nick: McSuck, maybe?

Renard: Will you let me concentrate?

Renard: Ernest McTuck

Nick: Did you upgrade to the i-Perv?

Hank: I don't even know how your phone does that to you. Mine won't even let me ducking swear on purpose.

Renard: Juveniles. All of you.

* * *

Nick: What time you getting here with the chinese?

Hank: 8:30 snuggly

Nick: ok cuddles :D

Hank: Hell, I thought I'd be safe from this shit if I stuck to my Nokia. I meant 'roughly'

Nick: still laughing, pumpkin

* * *

Denny: Some help, please? Jan's got a filthy cold and his purring has just registered on the richter scale.

Monroe: Koninglowen get terrible congestion. Get him to dissolve some cocks into boiling water and inhale the steam.

Denny: Um... that'll make him feel better, will it? :/

Monroe: Hopefully.

Denny: Much as I love Jan, I'm not donating my cock. Other suggestions?

Monroe: Huh?

Monroe: VICKS! Y'know the vapour rub? Vicks, not cocks! Context, dude!

Denny: There's no good yelling 'context' at me. you and Rosie come up with some right dodgy brews sometimes ;)

* * *

Hank: How's your head?

Nick: Still sore. Was up all night chewing anvil.

Hank: Sounds heavy, man :D

Nick: Funny guy :p

* * *

Nick: Hey Jan, you up for a BBQ this weekend?

Jan: Sure. Where?

Nick: Hank, Wu and I have discussed and we think over at yours because you have a nice dick and it's the biggest by a lunar mile.

Jan: Why, thank you, Nick [ahem]. Re-read, perhaps?

Nick: crap, crap crap. Deck! I meant deck!

Nick: I think I was less pink after the purification process...

* * *

Denny: Nick came over all funny. He's awake now but confused, tense and BP way, way high. Could you pop over and check him over?

Rosalee: On my way. In meantime, tell him (sternly) that he needs more water and vegetables and less sodomy in his life.

Denny: Yes ma'am. Will be extra stern about the sodomy. *sniggering*

* * *

From: JWu ppd . oregon . state

To: NBurkhardt ppd . oregon . state ; HGriffin ppd . oregon . state ; JVergeer ppd . oregon . state

Cc: SRenard ppd . oregon . state

Subject: Handover

Guys

Those of you who occasionally listen when I talk will recall that I am going away over the next few days. Franco is covering. Be nice.

Just because I am not here, it does not mean that you get out of finishing the panting in the locker room. More hands makes for a quicker job and I expect that wall to be _covered_ when I get back.

Any box files ordered must be locked in Retard's office overnight and not just shoved into broom cupboard.

Have a nice weekend

Wu

_Two hours later..._

* * *

Jan: Job done. We were very thorough.

Wu: good! Thanks. See you next week.

* * *

Hank: Man, the effort we had covering that wall. Totally out of breath here.

Wu: I don't care. I'm on holiday. Have a nice weekend.

* * *

Nick: Panting complete and my arms are KILLING me

Wu: What's with the blow-by-blow updates? I DON'T CARE. Holiday, remember?

Wu: panting?

Wu: Nick pls forward that last email to Wuwithclue aol . com?

Wu: AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

* * *

Wu: I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! Total autocorrect FAIL! You are so not a retard!

Renard: I'm relieved you don't think so.

Wu: Of course I don't think so!

Renard: I did wonder why people were speaking so slowly and clearly all day

Wu: OMG. Heart attack here.

Renard: You're sounding a bit shrill, Wu.

Wu: Sorry, Sir

Renard: ;)

**X x X**

_**Hope you enjoyed that bout of silliness! More some day, I'm sure. So long as autocorrect keeps making our lives 'easier' I'm sure there will be more scenarios to mine, lol. I've tried not to make them all pervy, lol!**_


	19. Curing the Fearful

**Children always need care and coaxing. Sometimes a Grimm needs care and coaxing, too. So it occurs to Monroe that a little multi-tasking is called for, with ideally one helping the other…. **

**Just a silly… hope you enjoy ;)**

**X x X**

**January 2016…**

Rosalee was glad to take the weight off her feet. The shop was neat. Bruno had finished his tea (ignoring his vegetables, as ever). The washing was done. The dishes were done. Denny hung back to pour the coffee, chucking the tea-towel into the corner, and then she slumped into the armchair as meaningfully as she could without actually spilling java all over herself. Hank caught onto her heavy landing and gale-force sigh and looked over with a vague sort of smile.

"Hey Rosie, need help cleaning up?"

"I'm good thanks," she muttered and flung him a thin smile. One day he would realise that offering after all the work had been done was going to win him no brownie points. She pulled the pouffe over by the chair, stuck her feet on it and watched in helpless amusement as Hank and Monroe settled down to watch Superman on the couch, with little Bruno wedged between them, his feet now reaching their knees . He kept one hand in Hank's popcorn tub and reached up to put the other over his pa's mouth. Rosalee didn't blame little man in the slightest.

As the theme blared, all three boys leant left and right in ludicrous unison as the opening credits swept towards them on the screen. Rosalee wondered if it was actually something they'd practiced. Then came the expulsion of Zod, Ursa and Non in the Phantom Zone, and then Jor-El's half-hearted attempt to make the open-minded Kryptonian council evacuate the planet. She watched her husband very carefully but he managed to keep his opinions to himself _all the way_ up to the part where tiny Kal-el was sent spinning through space in his cramped ship, to the background sound of Jor-el lecturing him about life, ethics, literature and the cosmos...

…and then he cracked, gently removing the forbidding little hand over his mouth.

"Dude, I couldn't take that spiel for two years, not even from Marlon Brando. Do you think he ever shut up so the poor kid could sleep?"

"Naw. He probably just switched to a subliminal tone of voice at nap-time. Bruno, do _not_ force-feed me popcorn, little man."

"I want you to be QUIET!"

"Did Marlon Brando even _have_ a subliminal tone of voice?" Monroe went on, completely ignoring his son. "C'mon. He's a direct-orders guy all the way, in any role. 'specially when he's playing someone pushy like Jor-El."

"Pushy? Just a little, man. I bet old Jor-el had the poor little guy signed up for a Martian linguistics degree before he was even six months old."

Monroe nodded sadly. "Let's face it, in every galaxy, you'll find pushy parents."

"In every planet there are noisy parents!" Bruno protested.

Rosalee sighed for her little boy. The movie was his third birthday present. The guys _could_ let him watch it. She was about to tell them that they were taking all the fun out of it for him when Bruno slipped off the couch and stamped over to the other armchair to appeal to Uncle Siegbarste in the corner.

"Denny, could you make them shut up?"

Denny lowered his glasses and chuckled sympathetically, keeping his thumb in his book to mark his place. "Sorry mate. Believe me, I've spent _years_ trying."

"You're not very old."

"Why _thank _you, Bruno."

"You've got _lots_ of years left to practice making them shut up."

Rosalee almost giggled as Denny stared at her little boy, then over at her, then glared over at Hank and Monroe with a sigh.

"_LADS! LET HIM WATCH THE BLOODY FILM, WILL YOU?_"

There was a short pause as Bruno punched the air and re-joined his Pa and Hank on the couch as they sat wiggling their fingers in their ears.

"Thanks, man," Hank muttered. "Set the Siegbarste on us, why don't you."

"Yeah! Unnecessary amount of noise!"

Rosalee almost dropped her coffee at the agitated banging on the door: seriously loud banging but without any calling out or speech of any kind. She put her cup down and looked out of the window to see Nick leaning heavily against the porch post, whiter than Jor-El's Kryptonian cloak and looking like he'd been drugged, dressed upside down by a blind, impatient octopus, and then released into the wild. Even his hair looked traumatised.

"Oh dear…"

Denny abandoned his book and jumped to his feet. "What's up?"

"Nick," she summarised, lunging round for the door, and noticed that even the boys had paused the TV in the background. She snatched the door open with a hand up in front of her in case he did his occasional thing of plunging face-down like a plank, but he was still holding himself up by hugging the porch post violently.

"Hey! Yer in!"

Crap, he looked drunk, only without the alcohol smell. Actually, he smelt wet, too, but without the moisture. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, we're in. Would you like to come and lie down?"

"No, that would hurt." Nick blinked repeatedly to get sweat out of his eyes and Denny got behind him like a flash, pulling him away from the post by his waist and holding him up like he was a spectacularly heavy bit of spaghetti. "Den! Paramedic! Y'r very useful."

"Nice to be valued. Nick, what happened?"

"What do you call a squid wesen?"

Rosalee pulled his shirt back and saw a little row of round sucker bites running up his left side and halfway across his chest. So she was almost right: Nick had been _undressed_ upside down by an impatient octopus. And was now breathing hard with an unpleasant amount of poison running through his system. "Oh hon. That looks like the hug of the Einsamkrake."

"Oh… bollocks."

"Donwanna tok about it."

"Einsam-kracke? Lonely octopus?" Denny pulled a face. "What did she do? Stalk you round an aquarium?"

"Not sayin' a thing." Nick peered at Denny closely as the vast paramedic lifted him up and carried him indoors, making an effort to carry on the right and not aggravate the bites too much. "You're wearing glasses!"

"Yes Nick, glasses," he sighed. "They make it much easier to read books that I don't even get to open."

"You look like Tidy Indy," Nick observed, waggling his finger thoughtfully, then his eyes crossed slightly, the lids flickered shut….and that was about as much sense as they got out of him over the next three days.

**X x X**

"… Just while you're here," Monroe coaxed him. "It would _really_ help. Oh… and you could maybe fill in some of the pictures in Bruno's word book? I've given it a try, but … I'm no Grimm when it comes to the great arts."

"Sure." Nick pressed himself up on the couch, shoved the tray on his lap, and took Bruno's word book and a pen. He was happy to do whatever he could do to help while he was hanging around the place feeling like a useless sucker bite. His brain had returned as had the feeling down to his knees, but getting up and walking anywhere unassisted had yet to occur. So helping out with Bruno… more than happy to do that. Helping with dinner wasn't going to be particularly relaxing as Bruno was a hugely picky eater, but the book… fine.

Bruno clambered up on the couch, pen pack in hand, and stamped his way cheerfully over the top of him (with his father's true sense of delicacy and inherited light feet) and wedged himself in a corner between the back of the couch and Nick's arm. Nick put his arm round Bruno and held the little book of words still while he updated the little illustrated glossary.

The little book made him laugh inwardly. It was full of the words that Bruno had heard and wanted to know what they meant and what they looked like. So it was like a team rule. You said a word, and if he said 'huh?' you wrote it in the little book, and then drew a little picture so he could spell it out later. For all Nick might gently mock the OCD-ness of the learning technique, there was no denying that he had fun with the pictures. And Bruno was amazingly good now at spotting words on signs. He opened the packet of pens and spotted Monroe's handwriting on the first unillustrated page.

"Ok Bru-Gru… what's that first word?"

"Ser, Lur, Oh, The, Huh!"

"Good letters, Bru! Yep, it's said Sl-o … long o there… th." Nick frowned. Crap. What did a sloth look like? He fished in his pocket for his phone and went straight to Google images. He found a decent picture and copied it out. "There you go – sloth! Super-slow animal."

"What's the green?"

"They move so slow that they grow moss."

"Eugh! Ok, next!"

Nick turned the page and blinked. These letters were in Denny's spiky black blocks and read 'Sod it'. How the hell was he supposed to express that pictorially? He tried to flip to the next discreetly, but Bruno finished the out-loud spelling with a proud smile.

"Denny said that's when you give something silly up because it's not worth the effort."

"Ok." Nick felt that this required a little story. He drew four little pictures in a comic strip style with a little stick man trying to shove a giraffe into a suitcase from three different angles, then the fourth picture showed the man stomping off in a temper. Bruno giggled gratifyingly, so he filled the stick-man in until it was Denny-shaped. They were both snickering away to each other as Monroe appeared behind them.

"Dude! Inappropriate!"

"Talk to Denny," Nick defended, and his buddy just huffed in resignation.

"Never mind… Ok… nearly time for dinner. You guys all set?"

"Oh Dad.. we were having fun!"

"Dinner is fun!"

"Hunh." Bruno ran a little hand through his red hair sulkily and stomped off to wash up. Nick watched him go with a grin. That's where he wasn't like his Pa: not only was he a secret non-vegan, but he didn't want the world to stop while food was prepared, either. Nick was very alike Bruno in some ways: food was fuel. That was it. And the less beans involved, the better.

**X x X**

"Hey Bruno!" Monroe called, "Could you come on over here for a sec? Give me a hand?"

As he heard shuffling on the stairs, Monroe shuffled over to Rosalee and took the tray of two protein burgers and small potatoes. "Are we a go for Operation Bean?"

She rolled her eyes slightly. "Yes, honey. And the bowl of vegetables is _just _there…. Where it always is…"

"This'll work," he muttered. "We've got to get on top of this while Nick's still here. It's our best chance."

"Honey, it's not a matter of life or death…"

"What is it, Pa?"

Monroe checked the bowl of broccoli and pole beans for heat and handed it to Bruno. "Right. These are vegetables―"

"I _know_, Pa!"

"―and as such, Nick will regard them with fear and loathing. It is your mission, if you choose to accept it, to get him to try one bit of broccoli, and one bean. Ok?"

Bruno frowned doubtfully at him. "But he's a Grimm!"

"He's Uncle Nick. He's not going to Grimm you."

"Maybe he doesn't _like _vegetables!"

Monroe felt he was losing the initiative a little and hunkered down to Bruno's height. "You see how he's not very well? Well… he's off his game. Why? No greens. Go restore our Grimm, ok?"

As Bruno toddled off, Rosalee came up alongside him and slid an arm round his waist. "You're blaming Nick's conditions on lack of greens?"

"Yep."

"Have you no shame?"

"Uh… not much. I have to ration it."

She giggled and they sidled to the edge of the kitchen to observe the encouragement scene, see how things played out. Bruno was sat next to Nick on the couch and handed him a pole bean. Nick shook his head vigorously, eyes wide.

"Oh C'mon Uncle Nick. You're a Grimm. You can take a bean!"

"You can keep your bean!" Nick squeaked and shoved a potato in his mouth to make forcefeeding difficult.

Bruno looked at him sympathetically. "It won't bite. You get to do all the biting."

Nick almost grinned, but had to swallow hastily first. "Not the point."

"What's the matter? Is it too green?"

"Far, far too green," Nick spluttered and pulled a cushion over his face.

Bruno looked over at Monroe in mute appeal as if to say 'Dude! Live with his fear of greens!' and he waved his hands encouragingly, meeting Nick's eyes with an expression of mute appeal of his own as he pulled his cushion down while Bruno's back was still turned. _Nick buddy, don't overham it, ok? The kid's always's gonna be smarter than you think_. Nick winked and as Bruno turned back, the wilting weapon in his fingers, he watched it fearfully from over the top of the edge.

"Ok," Bruno said. "Just try one. Ok? One?"

Nick reached a hand out really slowly and took the polebean by the very end, letting it bend into a miserable inverted U.

"Tell you what, Nick, I'll go first!"

Monroe held his breath and he heard Rosalee gasp as the unthinkable happened: Bruno took the bean and bit. Then took another bite. He pulled a tiny expression of disapproval, then shrugged and ate the rest of it.

"It's fine!"

Nick copied with equal degrees of initial suspicion, then indifference, but finished his, too. Then Bruno led the charge with a bit of broccoli. Between them, over twenty minutes, they finished the bowl of 6 beans and 4 pieces of broccoli.

As Bruno looked towards them, grinning at his triumph, Nick punched the air behind him and Monroe couldn't wait to dart outside and do the happy dance. Three years of dinner-time fighting… at an end. He shared a huge, relieved hug with Rosalee and made a point of having a 'beer date' with Nick.

He may be down, but certainly not out, and there was no such thing as a 'useless' Grimm.

**X x X**

**Coming soon… the list of 'Wesen Nevers'! As in 'Never lick a Grimm'….. feel free to contribute your own suggestions ;)**


End file.
